


Accursed

by Troo



Category: Warcraft (2016), Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: F/M, Worgen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-05
Updated: 2018-05-23
Packaged: 2018-11-13 18:34:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 26,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11190939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Troo/pseuds/Troo
Summary: Anduin Lothar sacrifices himself to save the lives of innocents. His reward? A damning curse! - It can't be all bad, right?This story is set in the movie-verse, but with changes. I've mangled some game lore and thrown it in as well. Ratings and relationships may change a bit later. Haven't decided yet.





	1. Fever

 

\--=-- --=-- --=-- --=-- --=--

 

Every joint ached miserably from the raging infection that circulated within his veins. Fever clouded his already inconsistent memory, making it impossible to remember the last time he’d been this ill – or if he ever had been before. The only thing he felt well enough to do was to continue doing nothing at all.

Heat from above warmed his body as he restlessly dozed on his side in the bright sunlight. It wasn’t enough to completely combat the chills that shook his frame, but it did help. His forearm lay draped across the eye that wasn’t hidden against the shaggy grass beneath him. The pounding in his brain would be considerably worse if not for the limb blocking the light.

A river flowed calmly along its path in front of him and the trees that formed the boundary of a large forest guarded his back. An occasional light breeze brought with it scents of the nature around him. He had no idea of how long he’d lain here, just as there was no memory of what had brought this sickness down upon him.

Thirst had driven him to make several unsteady trips to the stream already, and it was starting to set in once more. Despite the temptation of the cool, clear water less than a dozen steps away, he decided he could wait a little longer for another drink. Each previous trek had left him winded and with a heart that beat erratically. He wasn’t yet parched enough to deal with those issues again.

The solution of simply staying next to the water’s edge had crossed his mind, but the muddy river bank was too exposed for his liking. His need for warmth had barely been able to drive him from the concealing protection of the trees and into the tall grass at their roots. Being at least partially hidden by the vegetation was worth every unpleasant hike to the water and back. He was vulnerable to any predator that might find him in this weakened state and it was worrisome.

Sleep had started to pull him back under when the sound of a twig snapping nearby woke him at once. A small, quiet noise that might have been missed by most, it was a loud klaxon to his practiced hunter’s ear. The arm slid from his face and he raised his head to look for the cause of the disturbance. Eyes that squinted against the sun focused upon the deer standing on the opposite bank of the river and she returned his gaze with fear obvious in hers. The lone doe had frozen in place when he had unexpectedly risen out of the grass in front of her. Water from an interrupted drink dripped from her chin. One of her ears flicked reflexively at an insect.

His stomach rumbled. He couldn’t remember how long had it been since he had last eaten. Whatever was wrong with him had stolen his appetite at some point. The memory of the taste of venison had his mouth watering despite the slight nausea that was now a constant companion. He knew he needed to eat to be strong enough to fight off this illness, but he also knew that he wouldn’t be able to bring down the deer in his current state. She would escape into the forest before he made it to his feet.

Giving up on the hunt before it could begin, he sank back into the soft grass. Frustration snarled his lip as he curled in on himself. Minutes later, the sounds of the doe retreating to safety could be heard over the background noise of the forest.

With nothing else to occupy his tired brain, sleep claimed him quickly. For a short time, he didn’t hurt and he didn’t hunger, but he did dream.

 

\--=--

 

The memory of a large green assailant swinging a massive blade at him wove itself into the random and fragmented scenes in his head. The moment when the filthy weapon sliced a line of pain into his flesh repeated once and again: a subconscious reminder of the festering, forgotten wound on his back.

When waking from these dreams earlier, he would remember what they had shown him until the fever’s heat burned the knowledge away again. This time, the world crashed back into existence around him, shredding through the tendrils of memory before they could take root.

 

\--=--

 

Less than an hour after his eyes slipped closed, he found himself instantly awake. Interior alarms screamed at him of danger but he didn’t know from where or what. Holding perfectly still, he tried to listen around the rapid pounding of his heart and the ringing in his ears. Minutes crawled by with no repetition of whatever it was that had disturbed him. Just as he convinced himself that nothing was there, his ears picked up a faint squeal in the distance.

He knew what sort of delicious young creature made that sound, for he had feasted on several over the years. It was a slow and soft thing that would have no defense against him. As long as he could avoid any adults of its kind in the area, the lost deer had just been replaced. If he could track down this prize, the meal would be worth the effort required to obtain it.

Another screech carried to him through the trees. The deeper tone of this call told him of the existence of a second youngling. His luck had definitely changed for the better. The promise of enough tender meat to fill his stomach drove him to his feet. A wave of dizziness attempted to topple him once he was upright, but it dissipated rapidly enough. When he was sure of his ability to move without falling, he put the river behind him and headed into the forest.

As stealthily as possible in his current condition, he worked his way through the undergrowth.More howling and bawling came from the targets ahead. He didn’t understand how these things ever survived to adulthood with the amount of noise they made. Hopefully, there wouldn’t be competition for the little beasts when he found them; any other hunter in the area was bound to have heard the cries.

The path he forged through the woods ran nearly parallel to the river and across easily negotiated terrain. Despite being weakened and tired by the infection, his strong, muscular body served him well in this environment. Less than a quarter of an hour passed before he neared where the calls were originating from. He slowed his pace as the trees thinned and gave way to a large, open field before him. The presence of adult animals had become obvious as he approached and he didn’t want to alert them to his arrival with an easily avoided mistake.

The fog that had clouded his thoughts seemed to have burned away with the exertion of making his way here. There was no doubt in his mind that the ability to think clearly wouldn’t last and probably would not return if he couldn’t obtain sustenance. Another chance at an easy meal was unlikely if this one eluded him.

He had been tracking game a great distance from his home when the unfamiliar enemy had wounded him. The resulting sickness had stolen his ability to make the return trip, or even remember which direction he needed to go. The lay of this foreign land wasn’t known to him, yet a lifetime of hunting and trapping in similar settings made it simple enough to stay out of sight. From his vantage point, he studied the meadow and the lives contained within.

Since he settled in to observe those in front of him, their population had quickly grown. Stragglers trickled in from the far side of the clearing while he recovered from the physical strain of getting here. He was used to seeing only adults of their kind when they gathered in larger numbers, but this time there were almost as many mewling cubs and energetic adolescents as there were mature animals. Their behavior was also unusual. Instead of the bristling danger they normally presented when grouped, this pack appeared to be relaxed and peaceful. He suspected that would change dramatically the moment he set foot in their midst and made off with one or two of their offspring.

There were already too many of them present for him to handle in a direct confrontation, so he rested and waited for a less dangerous option for his raid. As he watched them move about in the grassy clearing, it became apparent that these creatures had a social nature and intelligence he wasn’t used to seeing in prey. Those that hadn’t arrived together appeared to greet each other with a fond familiarity. Their young played with each other while the parents chattered in their strange, drawn-out language. They put all of the pack’s youngest members together and left only their weaker females with them for protection. The barely mobile offspring weren’t even situated in the middle of the gathering for safety but were almost completely off to one side. This surprised him but made the task ahead easier.

He moved around the edge of the meadow to be as near to his targets as possible. If his stomach had been rumbling uncomfortably at the sight of the deer, it was throwing a painful fit now that a potential banquet was lazily spread before him. He suspected this species’ hearing wasn’t as keen as his, for if it had been, they would have surely heard the audible demands coming from his guts by now.

The only thing that kept him from darting out of the woods immediately was the presence of several dangerous looking males spread around the edge of the pack. He knew they could be quite vicious when challenged, despite their smaller stature. Anticipation fought against fatigue to keep him alert and observant enough to learn their patterns and timing. It wasn’t a thing to be rushed.

In the time it took him to become familiar with their defenses, the creatures distributed and devoured a meal of previously gathered food together. This behavior was so different from anything he remembered seeing in other prey and it intrigued him. If it weren’t for the driving need for food and the worry that he might miss out on this opportunity, he would stay and watch them rather than attack. His curiosity with them wasn’t enough to waylay his plotting and he decided that the moment had come to put his plan into effect. It was now or never. Risk still remained, but if he died in the attempt, so be it. He would rather meet death on his feet than be taken by it while he napped in the woods. Using the tree at his side for support, he pulled himself to his feet. The dizziness he expected did not return. For this, he was thankful.

The nearby guard animal started along its circuit again. Once it reached the furthest point of its path, the area between the young ones and the hunter would be as clear as it ever would be. He readied the few weapons available to him while he waited. As skilled as he was in their use, they should be sufficient for his defense if things were to go poorly.

It was time.

His salvation was within reach and as unguarded as it ever would be. A feral grin spread across his face as adrenaline washed through his veins. Using all of his remaining strength, he pushed forward and abandoned the concealment of the tree line. The hunt was on.

 

\--=-- --=-- --=-- --=-- --=--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is what has pulled me away from my first story. It won't let me go back to work on the other one until I have met its demands.
> 
> 'Accursed' is set in my version of the movie world that 'A Taste of Iron' is set in, but there will be differences. An alternate-alternate universe if you will. If you've read what I've posted of 'AToI' so far you will have met most of my original characters there.
> 
> There will be violence and death and sadness and adult situations, but based on what I already have outlined it shouldn't be anything you wouldn't see in an R-rated movie or lower.
> 
> I've set out to do a better job at the actual writing of the story this time around so that it looks like I know what I'm doing even though I don't. *fingers crossed*
> 
> I cannot promise that the new chapters will come quickly. Unlike 'AToI' I do not have a majority of this story outlined already and don't know where it's going in the long run. I'm finding that writing correctly is very, VERY time consuming as it's not something I'm used to doing yet. It's taken me almost three weeks to create this first chapter and refine it to something I am proud of. Hopefully, I will get faster at thinking/writing in this tense.
> 
> Thank you for taking the time to read this. Any and all comments and feedback are greatly appreciated!


	2. Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Four Months Earlier...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slight cursing and rough language ahead.
> 
> A lot of this content will look familiar if you've seen the movie, but there are some important changes to the plot mixed in.

 

\--=-- --=-- --=-- --=-- --=--

 

(Four months earlier...)

 

\--=--

 

The Guardian had fallen only a short time ago at the hands of those he was supposed to be protecting. Medivh’s corruption by both demon and fel had forced Khadgar and Lothar to end his life at great risk to their own. The apprentice mage who would have been Medivh’s replacement, and the seasoned warrior who had been his friend. Two people he had greatly respected. Alone, neither would have succeeded, but together they managed what should have been impossible.

 

-=-

 

Many miles away, Stormwind’s king was about to join the Guardian in the afterlife in an effort to protect the citizens he had been charged with ruling and caring for. The dagger that would take him from this world hung hesitantly in the air behind him, its hilt wrapped in slender green fingers.

Her decision made, Garona honored King Llane Wrynn’s request and drove it downwards, the blade biting deeply into his neck. He dropped to his knees and lifelessly fell forward to the dusty earth beneath him.

 

\--=--

 

As children, Medivh, Llane, and Lothar were nearly inseparable. The three had remained close even when they became the Guardian, the King, and the Commander. It had been life and responsibility that had finally pulled one of the trio away to the magical tower of Karazhan years before, and now it was death that would shatter their remaining bonds.

Two were mortally injured on the same day, within the same hour. The third had been one of their killers and too late to save the other.

 

\--=--

 

Anduin Lothar, Commander of Stormwind’s armies, left Khadgar behind and alone with the dying Guardian and hurried away to save his king. Pushing the gryphon he rode upon as fast as it could fly, he almost made it in time to do so.

Orcs were converging on Llane’s prone form as Lothar got close enough to make out the familiar silver armor in their midst. A piercing cry from his half eagle, half lion mount was all the warning the orcs received before man and beast plummeted from the sky and tore into their ranks. None lasted long before the talons, beak, claws, and buffeting wings of the gryphon, nor against Lothar’s expertly wielded blade. The highly intelligent and battle-trained animal continued clearing the area around Lothar so that he could retrieve the fallen king, and when he had done so, it returned to him.

King and commander safely on its back, the gryphon launched into the air. Lothar could feel the strong wings beneath him straining to lift them out of the orcs’ reach. Then, before he could make sense of what was happening, the world lurched and darkness crashed down around him.

 

-=-

 

Blackhand, warchief of the orcish Horde, laughed at how easy it was to pull the fleeing beast out of the air and restrain it until several of his warriors could take over for him. The body of the human king had somehow remained across the bird’s saddle but was no longer of any relevance. Blackhand had something more important that he wanted to deal with instead. The human that had taken his left hand from him during their first meeting lay unconscious nearby.

As he stepped towards the soft and unprotected enemy, he thought about how easy it would be to simply squash him underfoot. How effortless it would be to drive his replacement fingers through the small-teeth’s skull. Even though his fel-changed body desired immediate violence against the man, he restrained himself from acting on the myriad of deaths he imagined in his mind. For he was an orc and orcs held to a system of honor. Once the warrior was awake, Blackhand would challenge him to a duel and defeat him soundly in front of the Horde. He would remind them why he was their warchief.

In order for the fight to be honorable, the human would need a weapon. Blackhand retrieved the sword from the flying beast’s saddle and began pacing along the edge of the expectant crowd of orcs. He was just considering how best to wake his opponent when he heard the man’s breathing change. Once he was sure the human was alert and looking in his direction, Blackhand tossed the blade at him and spoke the words of challenge. “Mok’gora.”

 

-=-

 

Threatening and unintelligible shouts brought Lothar back to consciousness with a start. His instincts warned him of the danger around him before his senses could gather enough information to remind him of where he was and what had happened. He turned his head to the right and his eyes focused on the hulking and monstrous orc across from him. Just as he realized he was looking at an enhanced, green version of Blackhand, a sword planted itself in the ground, mere inches from his nose. The words the warchief spoke next were alien but familiar. Garona had told him of this custom, of this duel to the death.

Lothar rolled painfully to his bare feet and pulled Llane’s sword free from the earth. He’d told Medivh that he had nothing left to live for nearly an hour before, but now there was a depressing truth to those words. In a few day’s time, he’d lost almost everyone he cared about. Blackhand had murdered his son in front of him only two days earlier. Lothar had been forced to kill Medivh to stop the portal that was flooding Azeroth with orcs. His best friend and brother by marriage lay dead not twenty feet away. The familiar dagger he’d found buried in Llane’s neck had belonged to the exotic half-orc woman Lothar was starting to fall in love with. Garona’s betrayal had done more to damage him than anything Blackhand might yet do and Lothar no longer cared about living through the day.

With a grim finality, he readied himself to die. His only regret was that his sister and her children would have him to mourn as well as Llane.

He raised his eyes to meet Blackhand’s and a familiar expression spread across the orc’s face. The same sneer Lothar had seen just before Callan died. Words in the Common language, garbled by jutting tusks and mangled by a tongue barely familiar with them followed behind. “Son weak. Father weak.” Lothar’s suspicions that Blackhand had known who Callan was to him were confirmed. A cold and calculating anger replaced the numbing apathy that had taken hold of him and he instantly knew he would kill this orc. Dying to this bastard was no longer an option. The crowd that surrounded them could have that honor once their warchief was dead.

The words he had spoken to his son the first time they’d encountered the orcs came back to him now as Blackhand began running towards him. ‘ _They’re stronger, be smarter._ ’ Lothar couldn’t keep the confident and knowing smile from ghosting across his lips when he realized how easy victory would be.

Revenge fueled his final charge. The memory of Callan’s death replayed itself as he closed the distance to Blackhand and raised his sword. Lothar poured all of his grief and hatred into one final swing of the weapon in his hands as he dropped into a slide at the last second.

The massive orc was unable to react to Lothar’s tactics in time. Sharpened metal sliced into the least protected area of Blackhand as his lumbering momentum carried him over and beyond the suddenly shorter man. The damage done to his most sensitive bits dropped the warchief to his knees, placing vital organs within Lothar’s reach. Llane’s sword struck true and ended the orc with one well-placed thrust.

As he pulled the sword free from Blackhand’s body, Lothar quietly claimed the victory as retribution for Callan’s death. “For my son.” He spoke to no one in particular and knew he wouldn’t be understood by anyone around, but they felt like fitting last words. When they were met with silence and not the roar of fury that he expected, Lothar looked up at the sea of brown and green faces around him. Some looked stunned. Some looked angry. Most looked as though they respected him, which didn’t make any sense.

One face confused him more than any other. For someone who had just gotten everything she had ever wanted, Garona didn’t look pleased in any way. All Lothar saw was sorrow and grief. His emotions mirrored in her features. It was more than he could process right now, so he turned and walked away into the crowd.

An angry voice called out behind him from where Garona stood. Lothar was positive the commanding words were his death sentence as they had no doubt come from the hunched and spike-covered orc next to her who was the real power behind the Horde.

Lothar hadn’t known her long, but he recognized the fire in her foreign words as Garona argued with the warlock Gul’dan. No translation was required for that.

Whatever she said must have worked because the crowd in front of him continued to part, allowing him through. Hand gestures that had to have been signs of respect met Lothar at every step. Everything was all so unbelievable and surreal.

The reality of what had occurred didn’t sink in until Lothar was almost back to Karazhan. The orcs had allowed him safe passage to the gryphon and let him leave with Llane’s body. He had killed their warchief and no one other than Gul’dan had tried to stop him. There was definitely more to this brutal race than he had first thought.

There would be time to think about all of it later. After he checked to see if Khadgar was still in Karazhan’s spire where he left him. After he got the king’s body back to Stormwind. After he took a very long nap. The numerous injuries Lothar had received in the last few days were making themselves known and he felt as though he could sleep for a week. He’d almost nodded off in the gryphon’s saddle several times already and his eyelids had begun to lower again when he felt the animal beneath him start its descent to their destination.

His mount headed for the balcony that circled the upper level of the tall tower without being instructed to. Once they touched down, he called Khadgar’s name. There was no response. He called again. Still, no mage appeared. He figured the kid must not have liked the idea of hanging around with the Guardian’s body and taken himself back to Stormwind. He couldn’t blame him, but Lothar had really been hoping the young man would still be here so he could get a quick teleport home. He did not relish the thought of flight ahead of him.

Gryphons were magical creatures that seemed to have a shared genetic knowledge of where any spot on any map could be found. All you had to do was tell one where you wanted to go and it got you there. Lothar had no doubt the bird would fly straight to Stormwind for him, but he questioned his ability to stay on it once it was in the air. Karazhan’s stores would have ample rope with which he could secure himself and Llane to the saddle for the trip home and he knew where to find it. His request for the gryphon to fly him down to the gardens at the base of the tower went oddly ignored.

Lothar repeated his words and again it didn’t respond. This particular gryphon was one he was quite familiar with and for this normally well-behaved beast to disobey, it must have had a good reason. Its feathered head tilted as it listened to something Lothar couldn’t hear.

“What is it, girl?” A soft, trumpeting noise was the only response his query received. The gryphon wasn’t agitated, so whatever it was, it wasn’t a threat. Lothar’s ears strained to pick up the sound it was hearing over the wind that gusted around them. Still not hearing anything himself, he decided to investigate. As he slid from the saddle, careful to not jostle Llane’s body, a voice he’d been hoping to hear called his name from the open doorway behind him.

“Sorry, I was reading…” Khadgar paused mid-explanation for his tardiness when he caught sight of the body across the gryphon’s back. His voice somber when he continued, “What happened?”

Lothar couldn’t bring himself to joke about Khadgar’s literary distraction as he turned to face the mage. “I failed. I was too late.” He was sure that he looked as dejected as his confession sounded.

Khadgar stepped out onto the walkway and stopped short of where Lothar stood. “You tried.”

The mage sounded just as tired and worn out as Lothar felt. “That is going to make telling my sister what happened so much easier,” he replied bitterly. Before Khadgar could come up with a reply, Lothar asked him if he would be able to make a portal to Stormwind.

When he said that he could, Lothar thanked him and proceeded to remove Llane from the gryphon. Once again, he instructed the bird to return home. It hadn’t listened to him the last time, but arriving indoors on the other side of the portal with a flying beast wasn’t an option.

Khadgar stepped forward to help him move the king’s body to the marble surface beneath them. A sudden yelp from the mage startled Lothar and he almost dropped Llane. “Khadgar!?”

“Put him down!” the young man practically squeaked at him.

The urgency in Khadgar’s words and demeanor had him doing as he was told without question. The moment the Llane was on the ground, laid on his side to avoid the dagger, Khadgar moved in close and checked for life. Lothar realized that he hadn’t actually thought of doing that himself at any point. Surely, there was no way Llane still lived. Wouldn’t he have noticed?

“He’s breathing! Just barely.”

Those four words finally broke through Lothar’s shock and pushed him into action. He dropped to his knees at Llane’s back as Khadgar stood and moved to draw the runes required to form the portal around them. Lothar pressed his fingers against the side of Llane’s neck and found nothing at first, but then the faintest of pulses beat against his fingertips. This was not possible. No one would have survived that injury.

The proof of life instantly turned his feelings of guilt into panicked desperation. “Khadgar,” Lothar paused as he turned from Llane to the young man drawing the last half of the runes, “Hurry.”

Lothar’s pleading words weren’t needed, for Khadgar was already hastily sketching the last lines of magic that would complete the spell. He had discovered that defeating Medivh had drained most of his mana and there hadn’t been time to recover much since, but he hadn’t known just how little he had left. As he recited the words and pulled the focus of the spell into his hand, he realized he probably shouldn’t have done this. His mana reserves were emptying rapidly and there was no time to warn Lothar to prepare. He just hoped this didn’t end badly.

Khadgar released the spell, triggering the portal.

The brilliant flash of arcane light left the gryphon suddenly alone at the top of Karazhan’s spire. When no one reappeared, it moved forward and sniffed the air. Deciding to follow Lothar’s command at last, it took to the air and headed back to Stormwind.

 

\--=-- --=-- --=-- --=-- --=-- --=--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a good chunk of the next chapter finished and it was supposed to be the second half of this chapter, but I really wanted to get an update out sooner, rather than later. So hopefully the next chapter will follow quickly.
> 
> (And by quickly.. I mean a month later. ;) It's almost ready as of 9/16 and I should be posting it soon. But... chapter 3 is now being spread out to chapter 3 and 4 because it just got so darn long.)
> 
> I'm still moving slowly as this is still something I'm not very good at, but my cadre of beta-readers is keeping me excited with their kind words.
> 
> Feedback of any sort is more than welcome!


	3. Sybil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A busy day in the Keep's Infirmary.
> 
> Will Llane survive a dagger to the neck?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has slight swearing. People would swear in these situations, especially warriors.
> 
> There are references to a few of the deleted movie scenes and to content in the movie tie-in book 'Warcraft: Bonds of Brotherhood' contained within.

 

\--=-- --=-- --=-- --=-- --=--

 

Stormwind’s infirmaries hadn’t been this full in a very long time.

The portal from the Black Morass had opened outside of the city’s walls and those escaping the Horde poured through. Fleeing for their lives, they had hurried through the main gate and into the safety Stormwind offered. The numerous injured among them were spread out between the available healing wards, which were all quickly filled past capacity.

By the time the call went out for every person with even the slightest skill in the healing arts to report for duty, the portal had already closed.

 

\----=----

 

A crimson-tiled roof marked the well-kept and welcoming building as belonging to the Old Town district of Stormwind. Its unique honey-brown, wooden exterior stood out in stark contrast to the surrounding darker colored residences and businesses. Due to the structure’s close proximity to the Keep, the constant presence of extra guards near its doors helped keep away the crime that this section of the city was known for.

The Golden Lantern was the unofficial name it had acquired over the years, while most simply called it The Lantern.

Inside the walls of this three-story building were numerous apartments. The rent for these rooms was higher than for most that could be found in Old Town, but the extra coin paid for safety, security, and quiet that was hard to come by in this area. Quite a few of the tenants that lived here spent their days working within the Keep and earned the better wages those jobs provided.

Sybil Faolain, one of the city’s most talented healers and a tenant of The Lantern, had been sleeping quite soundly when a sudden, loud pounding on the door to her living quarters jolted her awake. She’d been working longer shifts than normal over the last week to cover for another healer’s time away with his family, and her plan to spend most of her first day off in bed, recuperating, was not starting out well.

It wasn’t as if her job had been busier or more challenging than usual. Even with the orcs attacking towns and garrisons across the land, Stormwind hadn’t seen much of an uptick in patients. Anyone not killed by the orcs was usually taken prisoner by these invaders.

Making people better always brought the young woman joy, so the extra time at work hadn’t been a bother, but more rest was needed than the last few hours had provided. She decided right then and there that the next time Marcus wanted time off, someone else would have to cover his duties for him.

Sliding off of the bed, she wrapped a blanket around her shoulders for modesty and hurried across the room. Sybil swore that the owner of the hammering fist had better tell her the building was on fire, or not even the Light would be able to save him from her wrath.

The ever-sticking lock, as if it sensing her mood, disengaged smoothly for once. She pulled the door open to find one of the city guards standing in the hallway outside of her room, one armored fist readied to knock again. His impatience was quite obvious. With a single glare from Sybil, his demeanor turned apologetic as he recognized the petite, redheaded spitfire.

“I’m sorry for waking you, miss. They need anyone that can heal to report to their assigned infirmary or to the Cathedral of Light, immediately. Something about there being a large number of injured.”

“Do you know what happened?” she asked, hoping to find out what to expect upon arrival.

He shook his head as he said, “Not for sure. I was assigned messenger duty when I arrived for my shift. All anyone said was that it looks to be the army that left with the king. Well… some of them, anyway.” Before she could ask anything else, he continued, “Begging your pardon, but I need to move on.”

“Of course. Go. Thank you, sir.” Her anger cooled immediately at his answer. Not enough time had passed for the soldiers to have made it to the Black Morass and back, and she wondered what calamity had befallen the city’s forces.

The guard hurried towards the next door in the hallway, and Sybil closed hers.

She glanced wistfully at her bed before getting dressed and tying her long hair back into a ponytail. It wasn’t her normal work-proof braid, but this would do well enough.

Once outside of her door, she battled the uncooperative lock with its key. If anyone had been nearby just then, they would have gotten an earful of incredibly colorful language. The mechanism finally fell into place, and she rushed away from home, towards duty.

Sybil only hoped that the infirmary’s private cupboard had been well stocked with the energizing potions one of the local alchemists produced especially for the Keep’s healers. She was going to require several.

 

\----=----

 

The hectic mayhem of influx that had overtaken the Keep’s infirmary was finally under control. Those with minor injuries had been seen to quickly by the drafted, less-experienced healers and then sent away to make room for the smaller number that required more attention. Most of the beds were now full of recuperating soldiers and a few civilians.

Normally the Keep’s healing center was reserved for those that worked within the castle, the royal family, and those with high-ranking status. On a regular day, only verified healers were allowed in. Today, its doors were opened to anyone that needed help – or to help – regardless of who they were.

While being generous with the Keep’s usually reserved resources, those in charge were also mindful of the security of the royal family, and guard presence was increased during this time. No one wanted to risk someone taking advantage of the tragedy to slip into the private sections of the castle with harmful intentions. One could never be too careful when it came to the safety of the king and his family.

 

-=-

 

Sybil had been fortunate. Two of the special stimulant potions were hiding behind the regular mana potions in the cupboard when she arrived. One of them was now the only thing keeping her on her feet. The adrenaline that had flowed side by side through her veins with the herbal concoction was wearing off, and her hands were starting to shake. Exhaustion was creeping back in.

She turned away from the soldier whose pulverized ankle she had finished healing a moment ago and collided with one of her colleagues.

“Whoa there, lass,” the kindly, older woman said with a tired smile. She managed to keep Sybil from falling, and then continued, “You look worse than some of the patients. Why don’t you wash up and head home?” When Sybil looked as though she would argue, the woman added, “The last of the wounded are being tended to already.”

Taking the time to look around her, Sybil realized that it was true. She would have given the other healer a hug of gratitude, but she didn’t want to stain the gray-haired woman’s nearly spotless clothing with the blood that covered the front of hers. “Thank you, Martha. I really do appreciate it.”

“Just promise me you will eat something before you fall asleep. I swear you’ve lost weight since you arrived.”

Sybil was used to Martha’s grandmotherly habit of hinting that she needed to put some meat on her bones, and it didn’t bother her in the least. No amount of food was going to change the fact that skinny ran in the family.

Smiling warmly, she replied, “I will.”

Martha made a shooing motion with her hands as she said, “Now off with you before you collapse.”

“Yes, ma’am.” With a playful salute, Sybil turned and headed away to change into something less disgusting.

 

\---

 

The healers normally assigned to the Keep each kept an extra set of clothing in the small, attached room that contained a cot for their use and shelves to store their belongings on. Traveling through the city while wearing other people’s blood was a sure way of garnering disapproving glances, inciting panic, or getting stopped by every guard along the way.

Now dressed in her clean outfit that consisted of leather pants and a plain linen shirt, Sybil was drying the last of the wash-water from her hands when a surprised sounding female voice cried out and destroyed the quiet in the adjacent main healing room. The shout was followed by the sound of glass vials shattering and the racket of much sturdier vessels hitting the stone floor.

As she poked her head through the washroom’s doorway, the scene before her was not what she expected to find.

Sybil’s unofficial apprentice, Hannah, lay sprawled out on her stomach in one of the main walkways that ran between rows of occupied beds. The splattered mess covering the floor in front of her had come from potions and salves she must have been carrying on the tray that her right hand still grasped. Quite a few of the nearest patients were sitting up and gawking at the disruption in their midst.

The reason Hannah and her supplies were on the ground appeared to be the young man standing at the fallen healer’s feet. As the blue of the arcane faded from the stranger’s dark eyes, Sybil realized this must be the city’s new mage that she’d heard about.

On the other side of this mage was Commander Lothar, who, in turn, knelt next to a body. A very familiar body. She recognized the king’s armor immediately. The question of King Wrynn’s whereabouts was answered at last.

The three men had definitely not been there when she left for the washroom, and there had been no squeak from the infirmary’s door to announce their arrival. With a mage in the equation, Sybil concluded that a portal spell had just dumped some of the city’s most important people into the middle of her workplace. She didn’t want to contemplate what would have happened to poor Hannah if they had popped into existence a moment and one step earlier.

Quickly scanning the room, she found very few healers remaining and hardly any that were familiar to her. If the king was as injured as it appeared he might be, she was not about to trust his care to anyone but herself. It wasn’t ego that led to this thinking, but surety in her ability. Everyone she worked with would have agreed with her decision if asked, for she had proven herself the most capable out of all of them, many times over – and done so humbly.

Grabbing the last wake-me-up vial and a mana potion from her belongings where they were stacked on a small shelf just inside the washroom doorway, she drank both and hurried towards the commotion.

Khadgar – if Sybil remembered the mage’s name correctly – noticed their arrival had been less than fortuitous for the young woman he had knocked over and turned to make sure he hadn’t hurt her.

Martha hustled over to check on Hannah as well, which quickly turned into the older woman offering to help Khadgar to a bed to examine him for injuries.

His extreme mana usage had left him weakened, wobbly, and barely able to stay upright, and he probably would have ended up on the floor next to Hannah if he’d tried pulling her to her feet. After telling the girl on the floor he was very sorry, he obediently followed the healer away.

The uninjured Hannah climbed to her feet and headed off to get the proper supplies for cleaning up the mess on the floor. The potential for unforeseen and dangerous reactions between the potions mixing on the floor was real and needed to be taken care of as soon as possible.

Sybil hoped that Hannah would be able to assist her once the mess was cleaned up, for the brown-haired girl was the only other person in this room that she felt might be skillful enough to help, despite her trainee status.

An unfamiliar, overly anxious man made it to the king a few steps before Sybil did. She mentally named him Shaky and marked him as a novice. Seasoned healers didn’t show the nervousness that he was, even if they felt it.

To her dismay, Shaky looked as though he planned on examining the king. Not wanting him to potentially make Llane’s injuries worse with his inexperience, Sybil directed him to look after the commander instead. She was pleased when he didn’t argue and simply followed the order, stepping out of her way.

King Wrynn wasn’t moving. He didn’t appear to be breathing. The jeweled dagger jutting from his neck gave her reason to suspect it might be too late already.

As she moved into position, Shaky placed a tentative hand on Lothar’s shoulder and attempted to get his attention.

“Sir, are you injured?” the man asked. Lothar gave no sign that he’d heard the question. The healer grabbed the soldier’s upper arm and gently tugged. In response, Lothar shrugged out of his grip and continued ignoring him in favor of watching over Llane.

Sybil made eye contact with the commander when she dropped to her knees opposite the king from him. He looked as worn out as she felt, and near-despair radiated from him. She didn’t know either of these famed men personally and had only seen them from a distance until now, but the talk around town was that they were as close as brothers.

The grief Lothar wore on his face tore at her heart. She wanted to reassure him with promising and heartening words, but there wasn’t time for pretty lies. Healing the king might be beyond even her skills.

Turning away from Lothar’s imploring gaze, she began her examination of King Wrynn.

Her left hand had barely contacted the king’s shoulder when a rough and calloused hand wrapped around her wrist from Lothar’s direction.

“Save him. Please,” begged the blue-eyed warrior it belonged to.

For a brief instant, the memory of another time overwhelmed and overwrote the present. She found herself reliving the moment when Lothar’s exact words had spilled from her lips as she pleaded for anyone around to save the man who was dying in her arms.

The comfortable warmth and medicinal smells of the here and now returned before the rest of the memory could play out. Reality pulled her back from that cold, damp, forest evening and left her with unwelcome tears threatening to fall. No one had been able to save the most important person in her life that night, and a part of her had never recovered from the loss of him.

She wished the man at Lothar’s side was better at his job and had been able to move the commander away already. Almost half a lifetime of trying to forget that tragic night had been undone with a single touch and three words.

It wasn’t as if no one had spoken those words to her since then as she brought their loved one back from the brink. Over the years, many had. Something was different this time.

Perhaps it was severe exhaustion that had allowed her to hear her past sorrow in his. Maybe it was the overuse of alchemical drinks that had been the reason. The end result was the same, no matter the cause: the king’s life was in her hands, and it was all she could do to keep from breaking down into a sobbing puddle instead of saving him.

Looking up at Lothar again, she found him staring back with questioning concern at her sudden change in demeanor. His hand slid away from hers, and before he could say anything else, she cut him off with her own trio of words, “I will try.” She promised all that she could as she quickly wiped the unshed tears away with the back of her thumb and returned to focusing on the man between them.

If the king still lived, he would have need of every precious second that was being wasted on the past in order to ensure his future. Bending over Llane’s body, Sybil pushed the remnants of the uninvited memories aside and concentrated on checking for any signs of life. Miraculously, they were there, and her years of training and experience took over in response.

Holding her hands above the meeting point of dagger and flesh, she began reciting a well-practiced incantation. The spell’s words formed a prayer that asked the Light for its healing energies. As usual, the Light responded; a warm, yellow-white glow encircled her fingers and spread from her hands to the king. Sybil channeled the granted power into his blade-damaged spine in preparation for removing the weapon.

While focusing so intently on her work, she had blocked out everything else around her.

“Fuck off.”

The sudden, blunt words had come from Lothar. His growled warning to the healer beside him shattered Sybil’s concentration, and her spell collapsed. The light around her hands faded as the link to the Light fell apart. If there had been any conversation leading up to the outburst, she hadn’t heard it.

She started to tell the commander to simmer down but held her tongue when she saw the cause of his irritation. Shaky had been tugging at the soldier’s arm again and had apparently aggravated an injury. She could tell Lothar was trying to pretend he wasn’t in pain, but the signs were obvious. His skin had paled considerably and his breathing was noticeably faster.

“Stubborn fool.” The muttered insult slipped out before she could catch it. His reluctance to look after himself frustrated her, and her self-control was faltering. Now that she’d said something, she found she could hold her words back no longer.

“If you value the king’s life, you will shut up and go with him.” Her slight accent became more pronounced as she countered his outburst with a tactless directive. Sybil hadn’t meant to sound so harsh, but something about Lothar had upset the normal balance of her world. Nothing ever interrupted her when she was healing, but he had managed to without even trying.

Maybe she was just out of sorts since that terrible memory resurfaced. Maybe she just needed to sleep for a week. Whatever it was that had knocked her off-kilter, she didn’t like it. Not being in complete control of the situation was making her irritable and short-tempered. It usually did.

Lothar turned his head to look at her. Instead of the glare he’d been leveling at Shaky – the poor fellow was now backing away warily – she was surprised to find an apology in his eyes. Was that amusement that followed in the raised eyebrow and tilt of his head? Did he think her rudeness was funny? She wasn’t sure. Sybil squinted back at him while she figured out how best to proceed with this unusually disconcerting visitor.

She pieced together her next words based on what she knew: Lothar was tired and in pain, he’d just lost his son, his good friend was dying in front of him, and he was, undoubtedly, used to giving orders and not taking them. More than likely, he would respond to aggression in kind as a majority of soldiers tended to do.

So, in a much gentler tone, she requested instead of demanded. “You are obviously injured. Please let him take a look at you.” She nodded towards Shaky. She could see the commander thinking her words over and hoped that honesty would get him to do as she asked. “I need to concentrate, and you are distracting me,” she finished.

“I’m sorry,” Lothar replied. “You are right. I’m...” A resigned sigh finished his sentence.

Sybil thought he might have apologized again if he hadn’t stopped himself. Now that he seemed to grasp that he was hindering Llane’s chances at survival, his anger faded completely away. Guilt and worry reclaimed his features.

Lothar finally started moving, but it was obvious that he was going to need help standing. Shaky moved closer, offering assistance, and Sybil was happy to see the commander finally accept it. As Shaky pulled Lothar to his feet, Sybil noticed the warrior wasn’t wearing any boots. There wasn’t time to contemplate this oddity before a pained hiss yanked her attention upwards.

“Catch him!” Sybil barked at Shaky.

The man hadn’t noticed Lothar’s rapidly deteriorating condition and looked puzzled by her command. Before she could repeat her words, Lothar’s dead weight dragged Shaky to the ground.

 

-=-

 

Adrenaline had pushed the pain back and kept it away since discovering at Karazhan that Llane still lived. Now that the king was safely in the hands of the healers, it had faded away. So when Lothar let the annoying stranger help him to his feet at the request of the redhead in front of him, he felt every one of the injuries he’d received.

Nearly being crushed in his own armor by a magical fist, getting tossed across a room by a man with a demon’s strength, and landing hard when he fell from a gryphon had all taken a toll. As the ache and hurt flooded back to the forefront, his body succumbed to exhaustion and the beating it had received over the last few days.

Gravity became the enemy, and Lothar lost the battle. His legs buckled with no warning other than the sharp command from the woman next to Llane.

The feeling of hands grabbing him and a blur of red in front of him were the last jumbled sensations his brain registered as unconsciousness claimed him for the second time today.

 

\---=---

 

It had been a near thing, the king’s survival, and Sybil wasn’t going to tell Lady Taria how close to widowhood she’d come. The queen didn’t need to know.

Garona’s dagger strike should be been instantly fatal. The rough treatment of Llane’s damaged body afterward should have finished off what the original attack had not. There was no reason that the king had lived through such a devastating injury other than that the Light had willed it. Even Lothar, who didn’t put much faith in the higher power that a good portion of Azeroth revered, would later admit there had to have been more to Llane’s survival than pure luck.

Sybil had used every ounce of skill and mana that she possessed and it almost hadn’t been enough to keep Llane alive. Her deft fingers made quick work of removing the king’s armor after she made sure the damage to his spine had been stabilized enough to do so. When she’d pulled the dagger free, his heart had stopped, and it had taken her far too long to get it going again. She had been close to giving up when the organ finally responded to the magic she’d wrapped around it and began beating once more. From there, everything had gone right but not necessarily easily.

Taria was currently sitting at her husband’s side, watching over him as he slept. While Sybil gathered her belongings so she could finally head for home, the queen’s voice carried to her, speaking quiet words of comfort and love to Llane.

What Sybil would have given to have had the chance all those years ago to do the same as Taria was doing currently. If only she had known then how to do what came so naturally to her now – he’d be alive, not bones beneath a tombstone.

Wanting to get away, wanting to stop thinking about her past, Sybil turned to leave. Her gaze settled on a certain brown-haired warrior as she did so, and she halted.

Martha had taken charge of tending to Lothar after he collapsed, and Shaky had assisted her. The two healers had done their job well, and the commander now lay recuperating under a warm blanket in a bed across the aisle from Llane.

He should have been asleep. Between his injuries and the healing magic used on him, he should be dead to the world for many hours yet to come. Sybil was surprised to find, instead, that his eyes were opened slightly, and he was looking towards his sister. No one else seemed to have noticed.

Resigning herself to the fact she wasn’t going to make it home anytime soon, she headed towards Lothar’s bed instead of the door. She pulled an empty chair over, set her bag of belongings on the small table between the head of his bed and the next, and sat beside him. The only sign he’d noticed her arrival was a single word.

“Llane?” Lothar asked. There was no energy behind his question, and she’d barely heard him speak. His gaze remained on the king and queen.

Sybil glanced over at the two people he was staring at as she assured him, “He lives, and he will recover. It will take some time, though.”

Lothar’s hand wrapped around the hand she had rested on the edge of the bed beside him. His fingers squeezed hers gently as more quiet words followed. “Thank you.” Despite their lack of volume, she could hear the strong emotion in them.

She had glanced down when his hand touched hers. Looking up again, she found him focused on her. Neither said anything else for a nearly awkward amount of time. During the pause, while she tried to think of something to say, she noticed how beautiful his eyes were.

 

\---

 

Almost everything she knew about Anduin Lothar had come from the rumor mill, for she’d never interacted with him or even been in the same room with him until now. She had only recognized him because of the times she’d seen him during official events within the city walls.

Working in the Keep had put her in a position to hear plenty of gossipy women talking about the queen’s handsome and widowed brother. It seemed as if every eligible female – many of the married variety as well – dreamed of catching his eye. If a person listened to everything said about the commander, he would have to be the most honorable, virtuous, strong, and loyal man to have ever lived. Sybil never gave their prattle much consideration. No one was that perfect.

There was also the latest rumor that he’d become more than just acquaintances with the half-orc prisoner that most every male around had been hoping to bed. She had seen how beautifully exotic Garona was, and she couldn’t blame any of them. That was the sort of woman that important men like Anduin Lothar ended up with. Unless, of course, that sort of woman turned out to be a double-crossing, king-stabbing traitor. The Stormwind rumor mill was going to go wild with that news.

One lifetime’s worth of heartbreak was enough for her, and she had no interest in chancing more. She was pretty, but she did nothing to make herself attractive. Men overlooked the plain exterior she purposely wrapped herself in, and she didn’t mind one bit. The odds were not high for the Lion of Azeroth even giving her the time of day.

 

\---

 

Now, with those piercing eyes looking into hers, she realized the most of the gossip was likely close to the truth.

Sybil had always been a great judge of character, and she knew, right then and there, that he was a good man. She saw how deeply he cared for those he loved, and she was suddenly jealous of his dead wife and Garona. What it must have been like to have had that intensity all for oneself.

For the first time since losing _him_ , she felt something she never expected to feel again, something she had never wanted to feel again: she longed to be held, to be loved, to be cherished, and she wanted Lothar to be the one to do it. Where this overwhelming desire had come from, the Light only knew – she certainly didn’t. What she did know was that she could spend all day losing herself in those eyes.

Her left hand rose from her lap and towards his face before she realized it was moving. Her fingers pushed a strand of dark, dirty hair away from his brow before she could stop herself. It was enough to instantly break the mesmerizing connection between them, and his eyelids drifted closed.

_Stupid hand,_ she thought, chastising herself for ruining the moment.

When his eyes didn’t open again, and his breathing slowed, Sybil really looked Lothar over for the first time.

Most of the commander was hidden by the bedding that had been pulled up as high as it would go while leaving his arms uncovered, yet she could see faded bruising on his bare chest, just beyond the sheet’s edge. Curiosity got the better of her. Moving her free hand from his hair, she pulled the soft material down low enough that she could see what had to have been incredibly painful contusions before Martha got to them. It looked as though something strong had tried to crush the part of his torso that she had uncovered, and she wasn’t about to disturb him to check how far down the damage went.

If any mana had remained inside of her she would have used it to finish healing the greenish-brown bruising, but her magic reserve was as tired and empty as she felt. Besides, Martha wouldn’t have left him in any pain. Sybil pulled the bedding back up so he wouldn’t get cold and returned her gaze to his face.

Now that he was asleep and relaxed, he looked quite a bit younger than she had first thought him to be. He was much closer to her age than she had expected.

Sybil took in the scars that framed his right eye and edged his left, and, in her opinion, the long-healed cuts added to his good looks, rather than detracting from them. She wanted to know what had caused them; had he gotten them in a heroic battle against trolls, perhaps? Had one of the three-fingered foes tried to sink its claws into his face? They were questions to be asked another time, for he was finally asleep, as she should be too.

Her own bed was no longer an option. She was too tired to walk to the other side of the infirmary, much less make it all the way home. The uncomfortable cot in the back room would have to do.

Readying herself to stand, Sybil attempted to slide her hand free from Lothar’s. The movement caused him to stir but not wake, and she waited for him to calm before trying again. Her next attempt ended in much the same fashion, but this time his fingers tightened their grip on hers.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake.” Her quiet complaint fell on deaf ears.

Running out of time and options, she decided the chair she sat in was comfortable enough, and the bed Lothar lay on would be no worse than the cot. She’d slept rougher.

Sybil leaned forward and laid her head down. She was asleep before her cheek even touched the blanket-covered mattress beside Lothar’s right arm.

 

\--=--

 

Martha returned to begin a new shift in the infirmary before the sun started to rise. She made her way to the cloak rack, hung her shawl upon it, and turned to find an unusual scene.

Spotting Hannah taking inventory of the bandage stock at the far end of the room, she waved the girl over. The pair of healers stood side by side a short distance away from the bed where the queen’s brother lay. They contemplated the young woman using the edge of his mattress as a pillow while sleeping in the chair at his bedside.

“Isn’t this her day off?” Hannah whispered to Martha as they took in the sight of their favorite redhead resting soundly next to the commander, his hand still holding hers.

An impish smile spread across Martha’s face as she quietly replied, “Aye, but I don’t want to wake her up. They make a cute couple.”

Hannah grinned at the comment and then added, “Their children sure would be adorable.”

“Too true,” the older woman agreed. “I wonder if Auntie Martha will get to babysit.”

“They’ll be fishing with Uncle Milton as soon as they can walk,” Hannah said, referring to Martha’s husband and Sybil’s fishing buddy.

Before they could get any further in planning Lothar and Sybil’s future together, a voice called for Martha from across the room. Work beckoned, and Martha’s shift began. “Be a dear and take her home when you go?” she asked of Hannah.

“Of course,” Hannah promised as Martha headed off to check on yesterday’s patients.

 

-=-

 

Sybil was none too happy with being woken up a short while later when Hannah was ready to leave for home. She was getting really tired of people interrupting her sleep. What made this time worse was having to remove her fingers from Lothar’s and walk away from him. A couple hours of shut-eye hadn’t cured her of this irrational infatuation, and all she wanted to do was stay by his side all day.

She knew this was just an immature crush. Deep down she knew it was probably just her biological clock and sleep deprivation that had led to her reacting to him so strongly. That didn’t make it hurt any less to end this little stretch of time where he had felt like hers. He wasn’t even awake so that she could tell him goodbye.

Unable to come up with any reason to linger in the infirmary on her day off, when all of the patients had been taken care of and were being seen to by on-duty healers, Sybil slid the strap of her bag onto her shoulder and followed Hannah past the sleeping king and queen, through the Keep, and out into the city streets.

Normally, the cheerful young woman she walked home with was one of Sybil’s closest confidants, but this felt too private to talk about, even with her. She didn’t think anyone would understand what was going through her head and worried that she would be thought unbalanced if she tried explaining. Thankfully, Hannah seemed to sense her mood and didn’t pry into the reason for her melancholy.

The air was cold and crisp as the two made their way towards Old Town, and Sybil was irritated with herself for not bringing a coat with her when she left home yesterday. Stepping in a puddle of sludgy, brown water while moving out of the way of a horse-drawn cart continued the trend. The outstandingly brilliant sunrise even seemed to be mocking Sybil with its bright and cheerful hues.

Less than enthusiastic words of thanks and farewell were all she could muster for her friend when they reached The Lantern at last. The younger woman pulled Sybil in for a quick, unreciprocated hug, and then headed away towards home, further into Old Town. She knew she didn’t deserve the kindness after the way she’d treated Hannah, but she was grateful for it anyway.

The hallways of The Lantern were busy with people heading out to start their day. Sybil really didn’t want to talk to any of them, so she kept her head down and hurried up to her third-floor room.

Standing in front of her door, she dug the key out of the small belt-pouch she kept it in. Unsurprisingly, the lock chose now to stick.

“I’m going to have the locksmith replace you and the blacksmith melt you down for scrap, you flea-bitten son-of-a-bitch,” she snarled at the unyielding mechanism. Her threat didn’t magically scare the lock into opening, but it did cause someone nearby to gasp.

She knew that gasp. She didn’t even have to look up to see that it had come from the uptight woman who worked in the Keep’s library. Sybil could practically feel the glare of disapproval that was no doubt being leveled at her.

Dealing with her down-the-hall neighbor was not one of the things she wanted to do right now, so she offered up a half-hearted, “Sorry, Ms. Greenwell,” as she continued working at the lock.

“As well you should be,” the woman sourly replied as she stormed past Sybil, heading for the stairwell. A muttered, “Can you believe they let her near the royal children?” could be heard over the noise the librarian’s boots made against the floor as she all but stomped around the corner and out of sight.

Sybil didn’t normally care what Ms. Greenwell thought of her, but the woman’s last statement had been uncalled for and unreasonably cruel. The dam broke. Tears that she’d been holding back all morning started running down her cheeks as she redoubled her effort to get the door open. She desperately wanted to get inside before anyone saw her like this.

Finally, the lock gave up its fight and slid open.

The loss, the want, and the hurt that had left her a near-blubbering mess drove her through the doorway and into the protection of the small space in the world that was hers.

Here was the familiar. Here there were no snippy hags to belittle her. Here was her comfortable bed with its inviting blankets that would accept her and hide her away from memories and pain.

She secured the lock and shut out the world, wishing all the while that she knew a little of the arcane so that she might ward her door against anyone who might come knocking.

Her bag dropped to the floor somewhere between the room’s entrance and her bed as she drank the Dreamless Sleep potion she had pulled from its depths. A small note in the cupboard at work explained where it had gone and promised its replacement when she next returned. Anyone there would have gladly let her take one, but she hadn’t wanted to answer any questions about why she might need it.

Knowing the effects would kick in quickly, Sybil didn’t even bother changing into her pajamas before collapsing onto the bed. She barely managed to get her boots off, her blankets wrapped around her, and her pillow wet with tears before the potion dragged her under.

 

\----=----

 

Lady Taria was about to head back to the royal living quarters so she could see to her two children as their day began. Before she did so, she needed to check on her brother.

Not long ago, the healer who had saved her husband had gone home. Taria had woken up just in time to see the woman exit the infirmary with the younger healer who had helped with the king’s care. Shortly after that, Llane had opened his eyes. He hadn’t stayed awake long. His thoughts had been jumbled and slow, and he didn’t seem to remember any of what had occurred at the portal past their initial charge towards it. Sybil had warned her there might be some lingering effects from his injury, and memory loss appeared to be one of them.

While he was conscious, Taria told him that the dagger she had given to Garona had been buried in his neck when Lothar found him, and the king had been confused and frustrated when he couldn’t remember how it had ended up there. Despite evidence to the contrary, he wouldn’t believe that the half-orc had betrayed them. The queen didn’t want to believe it either, but the proof was pretty damning.

As he drifted off again, he assured Taria he would be fine and asked her to return to home so that she could be there for their children when they woke up. He didn’t want someone else giving them the news of what had happened to him. She agreed.

There was still a little bit of time before they would wake, so she sat down in the now-vacant chair at Lothar’s side after pulling it close.

She hadn’t missed her brother’s brief interaction with the redhead who had recently occupied the chair she now sat in, nor how he had held onto the healer’s hand while they both slept. Taria’s matchmaking tendencies were already at work and she wondered if maybe this woman would be able to help Lothar through the loss of his son and Garona. The queen was a master at the skill of reading people, and she could see that Sybil was someone her brother would be an idiot to ignore. She knew Lothar had been falling for Llane’s would-be-assassin, and Garona’s betrayal was going to leave him in a dark place he might not be able to crawl out of on his own. The death of his wife, Cally, had nearly killed him all those years ago, for he wasn’t one to fall in love lightly.

The kingdom needed a mentally healthy military commander, especially now. She needed her brother to be happy.

Taria didn’t want to wake Lothar, but she also didn’t want to leave without making sure he was okay and thanking him for what he had done. Once she left for the royal quarters, there might not be another chance for her talk to her brother alone for some time. Her children would be up soon, so she needed to hurry, but he was worth the delay.

She reached to pick up his hand that had been holding Sybil’s but stopped short when she noticed that the healer had bunched up the edge of the blanket next to his thigh and stuffed it under his fingers. Presumably, so he wouldn’t notice that her fingers were gone. Smart, talented, kind, _and_ thoughtful. Taria liked the woman more every minute.

Rather than undo Sybil’s handiwork, she rested her right palm on his cheek. Her thumb stroked the facial hair at the corner of his lip, almost intimately.

“Wake up, Andi.” She used her private nickname for him to let him know it was her. Very few called him by his first name, and no one was brave enough to repeat this shortened version; he hated it when anyone but his sister did. Back when he was still training to be a soldier, he had left the last man who had been stupid enough to use the nickname in need of medical attention and had gladly taken the punishment for doing so.

It didn’t take long for him to stir. His breathing deepened and his eyelids cracked open. Taria could see he wasn’t having an easy time keeping them open as he focused on her.

Lothar’s voice was rough with sleep when he spoke. “Tari?” He used the shortened version of her name that he alone was allowed to use, and it came across questioningly. His eyes moved off of her, taking in their surroundings, and she could see when the realization of where he was sank in.

“It’s me,” she reassured him as her hand moved from his face and settled on his right shoulder. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw his fingers tighten on the blanket bunched beneath them. When they didn’t close on the solidness his still-waking brain expected, his head lifted slightly from the pillow, his arm moved out of the way, and he looked at the bump in the bedding that had made a poor replacement for Sybil’s warm hand.

A knowing smile quirked Taria’s lips. Even if Lothar wouldn’t acknowledge it later, for she knew he was unlikely to, the young woman had made an impression on him. Before he could regain his composure and hide the loneliness that flickered across his features, Taria saw it. She didn’t think anyone else would have caught it, but her brother’s emotions were always an open book to her. Touch comforted him, as it did for her, and it was obvious he was missing the contact of the healer’s hand in his, now that he’d noticed its absence.

“She went home,” Taria explained. Her smile got wider and more playful as she added, “It was her day off. I don’t blame her for not wanting to spend it here, holding your hand.” She patted his shoulder before pulling her hand back and resting it on her lap.

Lothar was fully awake now and took her teasing in stride. He simply rolled his eyes in reply.

Before he could say anything, she continued, “Also, these chairs are not as comfortable as they look. I think the poor woman wanted to sleep in her own bed.”

“I can understand that,” he commiserated. The mattress he lay upon wasn’t awful, but his own would be much better. Needing to change positions after being still for so long, he rolled onto his right side, facing Taria. His bruised chest complained at the movement and he grimaced at the unexpected pain. Any potions they’d given him had long since worn off while he slept.

His sister’s smile faded into concern. “Are you okay? Do you want me to get a healer?”

“No,” he said through gritted teeth.

“No... _what_?”

“I don’t need a healer.” He sucked in a breath. “I’m okay.” The arched eyebrow his sister gave him said she didn’t believe him. “It’s not bad, I just moved too quickly,” Lothar explained as his left hand came to rest over his heart, his fingers landing where the magical ones had tightened around him back in Karazhan. The pain had brought with it the memory of who had caused it and how, quickly followed by what he’d had to do to stop the man who had tried to kill him and Khadgar.

As Lothar remembered the part he played in killing his life-long friend, grief took over where the memory of the crushing arcane fist had left off. For a moment, he couldn’t breathe. It felt as if his heart stuttered beneath his ribs. Tears filled his eyes as he looked into Taria’s. “Medivh…”

Taria reached out and enveloped his right hand with both of hers. Sadness tinged her voice as she spoke. “Khadgar told me.” She paused. “I’m sorry you had to be involved in Medivh’s death, but it had to be done. He would have destroyed everything we know, killed everyone we love.”

“He still might,” Lothar responded quietly. A single tear rolled across his cheek and onto the pillow. The Guardian had already cost him his only child and nearly Llane as well. Khadgar, with all of his innocence, had almost been consumed and corrupted by the fel while stopping the incredibly powerful magus. Who else would Medivh’s invited invasion steal from them before it was over?

With determination in her voice, Taria countered, “Not if we can help it.” She could see her brother heading towards depression and self-loathing if this wasn’t turned around, and she was going to do her best to build him up and help him where she could. “You saved Llane’s life, and I will be grateful to you forever for that.”

Lothar argued, while wiping the moisture from his eyes with his left hand, “The healers saved him.”

“Sybil. Her name is Sybil.” Taria wasn’t about to give up on pushing them together.

The sigh from Lothar that followed her redirect held a hint of irritation in it, telling her that he knew what she was trying to do. “I didn’t save him, I only brought him back.”

“You brought him back from a place no one should have been able to bring him back from. The last men that made it through the portal said there would have been no escape for anyone left behind… that there were just too many orcs…”

“The gryphon helped with that.” Lothar continued giving others the credit. He didn’t feel like a hero in the last day’s events, and he didn’t want anyone else thinking he was one either.

Lothar’s deflecting was starting to bother Taria. “Fine. We will get your beast a special meal in thanks. None of this changes the fact that you brought the other half of my heart home alive, for which I am grateful. Thank you.” At her last words, she squeezed the hand wrapped in hers.

He nodded, not wanting to ignore her thanks. “Make sure she gets a well-fattened cow. Maybe a nice pig or two. That bird did most of the work.” He tried to steer the conversation away from the emotional direction it was taking. Lothar really didn’t want to feel the sadness that it would bring. “Would you let the war council know that Blackhand is dead?” He was going to have to take credit for that, but it would at least change the course of the conversation.

“How…?”

This was the only thing he’d done since Khadgar released him from the cell Llane had ordered him into that hadn’t left him feeling guilty, and the thought of it brought a mildly feral sneer to his lips. “I killed him.” Taria opened her mouth to ask for details. He knew those questions would bring him back to thinking about Callan, and that was the one thing he wasn’t prepared to deal with right now. It was time for another subject change. “I will tell you about it later.” His smile faded to seriousness. “Khadgar? How his he?” He knew better than to give his sister time to argue.

She knew exactly what he was up to, but she also knew that he would probably shut down if she pushed him. “He is as well as can be expected. Several hours of sleep and a few mana potions had him almost back to normal, so I sent him back to his quarters for more rest. And yes, he did tell us to keep an eye on him in case he started acting strangely, or his eyes turned green.” Taria’s smile finally returned.

“Good boy.”

The queen’s grin widened at Lothar’s comment. “On that note, I need to head home. The children will be awake soon.” Taria let go of his hand and prepared to stand.

A twinge of jealousy pulled at him, for his child was gone. He would never again walk into a room to find Callan there, waiting to tell him about some new fighting technique he’d learned or about a pretty girl who had caught his eye. There were no more chances to see his boy bravely leading troops into battle or for Lothar to simply watch over Callan while he slept. His heart hurt to think that the last remaining bit of his Cally was gone, buried in the family graveyard next to her.

At that moment he both hated and loved his sister and her kids. He knew it was wrong, and he knew it was something he would get over, but he couldn’t help the feeling. They still had everything that he no longer did.

Burying his envy deep, Lothar made sure there was still a smile on his face when he asked, “Will you hug them for me?” He really did love Varian and Adariall, he was just hurting.

“You needn’t ask. Of course I will. I’ll even bring them by to see you later after you’ve gotten more sleep.” Taria rose from the chair and leaned over her brother. She placed her right hand lovingly on his temple and pressed her lips to his forehead.

As she pulled back from the contact, Lothar felt guilty about his jealousy towards her. There wasn’t a mean bone in her body, and his sister didn’t deserve his darker thoughts.

“Love you,” he said to her honestly and with as much cheerfulness as he could muster.

Her hand slid from his forehead, along his cheek, and down to his chin. Her fingers gently tugged on his beard to make sure his attention was all hers. “Not as much as I love you.” Taria could still see the sadness of loss behind his faked smile and didn’t want to leave him like this, but she had to go. “We’ll talk later, when you’re ready. I’ll see you soon.” He nodded his agreement, and she let go of his beard and walked away.

On her way out of the infirmary, she stopped Martha and made one request for her brother. Then, she was gone.

 

-=-

 

Lothar was alone with a raging storm of recollection swirling around in his head.

He didn’t want to be here, and he didn’t want to be awake. He most certainly wanted to forget everything for a while. If he had enough strength to make it further than the infirmary’s lavatory, he would already be a few pints into oblivion at the nearest tavern.

_Callan, Medivh, Garona_. _Callan, Medivh, Garona_. Over and over and over again. So much pain, so much loss. The point neared where he would be able to bear it no more – he would crawl to that tavern if he had to – when another memory surfaced.

“Stubborn fool,” she had said to him. She’s been right, and she hadn’t thought twice about calling him on it. _Sybil. Not she,_ Lothar corrected himself, recalling the name his sister had given for the young woman.

If there had been one bright light in the last days, it had been her.

Cally had been his first love and his whole world. He had worshiped the ground she walked on from the day he met her until the day she died giving him their son. Unlike many in his line of work and quite a few of his closest friends, he had been a virgin when he’d carried her to their wedding bed. There had only been his wife.

She bled to death in that very same bed, taking a part of him with her. He knew she would have told him to find another, that she would have been okay with it, encouraging even, but he belonged to her.

No one since had earned his interest until the day Garona threatened him on the throne room stairs. For sure, many had tried. Lothar knew women looked at him as a potential step up in society. He was used to them fawning over him annoyingly, being too nervous to talk to him, or acting like he would be lucky to have them. From highborn to the lowly street urchin, he felt as though he was one thing to them: a prize.

So when this simply-dressed and plainly done-up stranger had treated him as if she couldn’t care less about who he was – and she had known, she’d called him by his rank when she told the other healer to take care of him – his interest had been piqued. Her telling him to shut up was just icing on the cake.

Other than his mother, there had only been three women in his life who were brave enough to boss him around as Sybil had done: Taria, Cally, and Garona. One had sibling’s rights, another, he’d married, and the third, he’d fucked.

He knew he had been falling for Garona, but now he wasn’t sure if he’d been falling in love with her or just wanting her because she was different, exotic, and strong. Maybe they’d simply used each other in a time of loneliness and pain. He was certain he’d seen genuine concern in her eyes when she came to him at the bar that night, but then she had betrayed him and the whole kingdom with a single thrust of a dagger. He didn’t know what to think about her anymore.

Was he doing it again? Was he looking to Sybil to fill the hole Garona had torn in his heart? He had only just met the healer and hadn’t even learned her name until a few minutes ago. What did he really know about this woman?

One thing he did know was that as he had lain there, her hand in his, her near-brown, dark amber eyes staring into his, all he could think about was how badly he wanted to run his fingers through her beautiful hair. He’d never seen hair that shade of red nor eyes like hers before. Everything about Sybil caught his attention.

She had made him feel safe and cared for with a simple touch. Perhaps he’d read more into a practiced bedside manner than there actually was, but since waking and finding her gone, he’d felt an unexpected emptiness that he hadn’t experienced since losing his wife.

With his luck and her understated beauty, he was sure he would discover that she was already spoken for if he were to inquire. There hadn’t been a ring on her finger when it had passed in front of his face, but in her line of work, many chose not to wear one while on the job. Thinking back, he realized she had worn no jewelry at all. Was she unattached? If she was married, did her husband not appreciate her enough to buy her gifts that accented how pretty she was? Did she just not like adornment?

Maybe it would be better to simply forget about her. He certainly didn’t need to add the embarrassment of his interest being unreciprocated if he acted upon it, and it wasn’t as if he could promise stability to anyone. The odds that he wouldn’t survive this upcoming war were high.

Lothar needed a drink. At this point, he’d even settle for an orcish hammer to the head. Anything that would make his brain shut off would be more than welcome. None of these things were going to magically appear, so he pulled the blankets back, swung his feet over the side of the bed, and looked to see if he could figure out where they’d put his clothes. He would trek back to his quarters in only the linen undershorts they’d left him in if he had to, but he preferred not to draw that sort of attention if it could be helped.

There they were! Spying his neatly folded and stacked clothing on a small shelf under the table next to his bed, he leaned over to reach for them.

Two things happened at once: the bruises on his chest reminded him that he was far from better, and a pair of feet in comfortable shoes stopped their walking beside his bed. The matronly skirt worn by the possessor of the feet swished forward at the sudden halt and then fell back into place around the leather footwear. Lothar turned his head and looked upward from the shoes and the hem of the full skirt, past arms crossed under an ample bosom, and into the face of the gray-haired healer he’d seen moving between patients while he talked to his sister.

She was markedly less cheerful than he’d last seen her. The look on her face would have scared a misbehaving schoolboy straight.

“Just what do you think you’re doing, laddie?”

He suspected she wouldn’t appreciate a lie, so he gave up reaching for his clothing, sat up, and told her most of the truth. “Going home.” He didn’t need to mention that after that he would be visiting one of the city’s drinking establishment.

“No, you are not. You will be staying right here.”

Lothar believed her.

Martha uncrossed her arms and offered him the potion that had been wrapped in one of her plump hands. The liquid was pale blue in color.

He looked at her warily before asking, “What is it?”

“Dreamless Sleep. Lady Taria asked me to bring one to you.” The woman’s severity softened towards the cheerfulness he’s seen on her earlier.

His sister was a saint. The color of the potion marked it as the highest quality version that could be made, and its effects would last half the day. This was even better than drinking himself unconscious and would work much faster. It would also keep any nightmares at bay. He reached for the vial, only to have it pulled away from his fingers at the last second. He raised an eyebrow at the healer.

“If I give this to you, there will be no more sneaking out when no one is watching. Am I understood?”

She’d said it with a knowing smile, and Lothar knew this order was more than likely from his sister. Taria had a knack for predicting what he would do next and had probably warned the woman he would attempt escape.

It was a small price to be paid for hours of peace, so he agreed to the terms. “Yes, ma’am.”

Martha held the small glass container out to him, and he grabbed it before it could be taken away again. He gripped the small vial in one hand and popped the cork stopper free with his thumb. The potion was past his lips and on its way to his stomach before he even tasted the unique blend of swamp flowers it contained.

He placed the empty bottle in the waiting hand he’d taken it from and settled back onto the bed. His eyelids were already getting heavy, and it had become too much work to reach down for the blankets. To Martha, he said, “My compliments to your alchemisht,” his tongue slurring the words a bit. The strong effects of the potion had activated almost instantly, a sign of superior craftsmanship. He wasn’t surprised though, the Keep did tend to have the best people on its payroll. Lothar relaxed into slumber’s pull.

Martha stepped closer and slid the bedding over him from where it was bunched by his feet, but only as far as his waist. Consciousness was drifting away rapidly when he heard her ask, “Would you mind if I work on these a little more?”

Not knowing what it was she was asking about, he fought against sleep and re-opened his eyes. He found her hand hovering over his chest as she waited for permission to finish the healing she had thought complete earlier.

“Deep bruising is a tricky thing to judge. Looks like I stopped a little too soon.”

The life of a warrior was a life of injury, and Lothar was used to being in nearly constant pain of some sort or another. He hadn’t really given the bruises much thought, except in those few moments when they’d screamed at him. He’d simply been thankful it no longer felt like a horse had fallen on him.

If she was going to offer further relief, who was he to say no? He nodded tiredly in acceptance. As the warmth of the woman’s spell sank into the muscles of his chest, his eyes closed, and sleep claimed him.

 

-=-

 

The Lion of Azeroth didn’t look very ferocious to Martha as he lay sleeping beneath her hand.

She knew he was one of the wiliest, most battle-hardened warriors Stormwind had ever known, but when she had asked permission to heal him, he’d worn the same vulnerability on his face that she saw on almost every sick or injured man that came through here. In her experience, most men – even the strong ones – never outgrew wanting the solace a motherly type could provide when they weren’t feeling well.

The last of his bruising faded away, and she let her spell fall apart. She pulled the covers up to his shoulders and tucked them around him for warmth. There were other patients she needed to be getting back to, but she stood there watching over him for just a little bit longer. She realized that for someone who lived in the Keep and was often in need of healing due to occupation, the commander didn’t come here to get it.

Martha had spent all of her years working as a healer in this infirmary, and she could count the number of times Anduin Lothar had come here in that time on less than all of her fingers. Most of those visits had been while he was still a boy and she a fresh-faced apprentice. She remembered him coming in a few times with his wife when the young woman was with child, but other than that, she’d only seen him once after Cally passed.

He’d been a handsome boy, those thirty-something years ago, and that hadn’t changed. Martha could definitely see why all the women were interested in him. Even Sybil, who had a tendency to avoid romantic discussions of any sort, seemed to have been drawn to him rather magnetically.

Who knew? Maybe Sybil and Lothar would magically fall in love like in the children’s tales. Martha was already envisioning seeing him around more often, doting on the young healer, showing up just to tell her he missed her. _That wouldn’t be such a bad thing,_ she thought as she left his side at last. It never hurt to have someone easy on the eyes around to look at.

Martha was old and married. She wasn’t dead.

 

\--=-- --=-- --=-- --=-- --=--

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (4/15/18) Even more additional notes!: I've decided to break off the first part of the chapter and make a chapter out of it so I can get it posted while I keep working. I just have to finish up one small section I added in and it should be done. I'm predicting about a week til it pops up. :)  
> (3/12/18) Addition additional notes: I am STILL chugging away at this. The chapter is currently sitting at 34 pages in length in my word processing program, and about a third of that is still really rough basic outline. So... yeah... one of these days! I can't believe it's been 5 months since I updated. :( )  
> (12/24/17 addition to notes: I'm still chugging away at this. Chapter 4 is turning into a monster as far as length and I'm gonna have to break it into another chapter. It's all outlined, but the fleshing out of the sections is taking awhile.)
> 
> I give up. I'm just slow at this. :D Haven't learned to not be a perfectionist yet. Expect future chapters to be just as slow, that way you'll be surprised when they aren't. ;)
> 
> For anyone wondering, I'm pronouncing Sybil's last name, Faolain, like this: fway-lawn. It seems to be the general consensus of how it's supposed to be said by people who know more than I do. I may have bastardized the name a teeny tiny bit from its original spelling with the O' in front of it, but I like it this way.
> 
> Old Town. I've tried finding out if it was called Old Town before the destruction of Stormwind in the First War. No one has much to say about this other than that it was a small village at the base of the Keep before the Orcs destroyed the city. I'm assuming it probably wasn't called Old Town back in the day, but until I find out what it was called, that's what it's gonna be. I know that the buildings in Old Town in current WoW Stormwind aren't dark colored, but things can change when you rebuild a city. ;)
> 
> I tried to get the hang of the colon, the semi-colon, and the dash in this chapter. I suspect that I don't quite have the first two down properly yet. If anyone is an expert in these punctuations, I'm all ears. I have a handy chart for proper tenses of some commonly improperly used words, but I haven't been able to find anything that makes the correct use of those dang punctions stick in my head yet.
> 
> I'm struggling with the next part, which, as usual, has grown out of control. Hopefully, you'll be seeing a new chapter before too long.
> 
> Thanks for reading! As usual, any feedback is cherished.
> 
> Many thanks to silentstephi, Whip, Kalla_Moonshado, Thesseli, and the 4 guests for the kudos so far. And to my commenter who has since deleted his/her account. And the most thanks to my trusty and most helpful beta reader/suggester AMFox. You guys make my world go round.


	4. Grief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A step back in time to when Lothar faced the loss of his wife, Cally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tiny bit o' swearing and some mild adult content within. Content from 'Bonds of Brotherhood' and deleted movie scenes once again referenced.

 

\--=-- --=-- --=-- --=-- --=--

 

Unpleasant dreams had been an infrequent occurrence in Lothar’s life. Rarely did he remember having dreamt at all. He knew many soldiers were plagued by nightmares; it was not uncommon to hear the sounds of someone struggling through one late at night in the barracks or the camp tents. Despite the gory memories of battle and the stress of his position, his nights had remained fairly unremarkable.

The exception to this ordinary had been when death stole Cally from him eighteen years ago.

 

\----=----

 

She’d been the center of his universe from the day he first met her, and his world had begun spiraling out of control the moment her heart stopped. Lothar was twenty years old and already a widower.

He’d spent that first night without her sleeping in Taria’s spare bedroom. He couldn’t bear the thought of being near his wife’s deathbed in the house he’d bought for her. Cally’s ghost visited anyway: haunting his dreams, blaming him, cursing him for not saving her.

Lothar found himself wrapped in his sister’s arms with tears streaming down his face when the vividly horrible nightmare had finally released him from its grip. As Taria did her best to calm him down and soothe him, she told him he’d been yelling in his sleep.

When it became obvious to her that he was unwilling to close his eyes again for fear of what would be waiting for him if he did, she had fetched a potion from her private stock and offered him one night without dreams. He’d gratefully accepted her gift and was quickly asleep again. She’d stayed with him that night, a comforting presence to ward away his demons.

 

\--=--

 

The military gave Lothar bereavement time to deal with his tragedy. Being only a captain at the time, he wasn’t in a vitally important position and could be spared. One of his sister’s close friends offered to take care of his newborn son while he got his feet back under him, which left him with all the free time he could ever want. If only it hadn’t brought with it endless hours of thinking. He wasn’t used to not having to be somewhere, not having to do something, and his unoccupied mind was left to dwell on the pain and the loss. All he wanted to do was stop the hurting.

Knowing he would not be able to find any respite in sleep without help, he went in search of more of the potions like the one Taria had given him. He hadn’t realized just how hard they would be to come by. The alchemists he’d talked to told him that it had become quite difficult to get any amount of purple lotus delivered at all, which was the potion’s main ingredient. A day of searching the city’s shops only netted him two potions and managed to lighten his coin purse of several day’s pay.

Taria turned down the potion he offered to her in replacement for the one she had given him. She’d said that he needed it more than she did but also warned him shutting down that part of the brain for too many nights could be unhealthy.

So, with the assistance of alchemy, Lothar managed to get nearly three full nights in a row of uninterrupted rest and finally felt like he might survive after all. The fourth night – the first without anything to subdue the dreams – robbed him of that positive outlook. The nightmares returned, harsher than ever, with Cally as their focus.

Lothar moved back into his house in the morning. He didn’t want to, but he couldn’t keep waking his sister all night when the terrors he saw would cause him to cry out. There was nowhere else to go where he wouldn’t be disturbing someone.

Unable to bring himself to sleep in the bed he had shared with his wife, he claimed the guest bedroom instead. She found him there easily enough. From the moment he closed his eyes, she was with him.

The Cally in his dreams was nothing like the woman he had loved, they merely shared a face. Where his wife had been caring and supportive, this nightmare version did everything she could to destroy him. She viciously blamed him for killing her, for impregnating her with the demon child that took her life. Sometimes she appeared whole and healthy, but more often than not she came to him in the form of a corpse in various stages of decay. Even the simple memory of her lying lifeless on their bed, the sheets soaked with her blood, became something monstrously tainted and distorted by his guilt-ridden subconscious. It was crippling.

He escaped her haunting during the day, but the lack of sleep was beginning to take its toll.

Lothar knew he was in no shape to care for their baby, so he arranged for the woman who had been looking after his son to keep him a while longer. His dead wife’s continual insistence that she’d be alive if not for the child had begun to sink in and become the truth. He knew it was irrational, and that his Cally would have continued sharing his bed even if she had known how it would end, but he started to blame his innocent little boy too. He wasn’t sure Callan would survive under his roof.

Taria Lothar – for she hadn’t yet taken the name of Wrynn – had confessed her concern about her brother’s mental health to Prince Llane during one of their secret dinner dates. From that point on, Llane spent any free time he had with the grieving warrior, trying to help his friend in any way that he could.

While Lothar appreciated Llane’s attention and thoughtfulness, all he could focus on was the pity and disappointment he thought he saw in the man’s eyes. It became a constant struggle not to punch Llane in the face every time he saw him, to wipe that look away. He wanted someone else to feel a fraction of the pain that was crushing him under its boot heel.

Later, he would realize that his exhausted mind had been playing tricks on him and that Llane wasn’t ashamed of him, but it was all he could currently see. He had to get away before he did something he would regret. So, with an excuse that sounded pitiful even to his ears, he parted ways with the prince and made his way to the closest tavern.

 

\----=----

 

Captain Anduin Lothar stepped into the Pig and Whistle with the intention of forgetting everything for a night. As the door closed behind him, and the sound of people chatting amiably met his ears, he realized he should have chosen somewhere better suited to his frame of mind.

It wasn’t an overly large crowd before him, but there were enough people to keep the single barmaid in constant motion with orders and requests. They appeared to be of a hard-working and honest sort and were in an obnoxious, cheerfully rowdy mood. The customers were almost exclusively male, and to Lothar, it looked as though most of them knew each other well.

Unlike many of the seedier taverns in Old Town, this one was well lit and welcoming. Even the large, stuffed boar mounted on the wall behind the bar seemed to be smiling in his direction.

He contemplated turning around and walking out, but he was just too tired to bother.

There was a slight chill in the air, and the patrons had bunched together at the tables closest to the fireplace to do their dining and drinking. Lothar had his choice of tables to sit at. He picked one along the wall opposite the crowd, isolating himself from any interaction other than with the barmaid.

Shortly after he claimed his seat, the serving girl made her way over. The burly woman had a plain but happy face and a pair of breasts that caught the attention of anyone who saw them. She didn’t look to be much older than Lothar.

Normally, he would have enjoyed her flirty banter while she took his order, but today, it annoyed him. She was just trying to make a living like everyone else in the city, so even though he wouldn’t be the friendliest of her customers tonight, he tried for polite. He didn’t need to share his suffering.

“What’ll it be, darlin’?”

“I don’t care, as long as it’s warm.”

“Something to drink?”

“A bottle of your strongest would be a good start.”

When she returned, she slid a dish that held root vegetables and a meal-sized, roasted game hen onto the table in front of him. The glass bottle full of clear liquid that followed was smaller than he’d anticipated. She placed a cup next to the bottle and asked him if he needed anything else.

“Not right now, thank you,” was his barely cordial answer

The woman’s level of perkiness seemed to increase in direct response to his worsening mood – almost as if it was her goal to win him over to the happy side of life by smothering him in it.

“As you wish. That’ll be eighteen silver.”

For that price, whatever it was he was about to drink had better be able to strip the rust from armor.

His face must have shown his thoughts because she added, “Good booze ain’t cheap,” along with a toothy grin.

He paid the lady.

Over the next hour, Lothar ate his tasty food and downed every last drop of the liquid fire the woman had left with him. When half of the bottle had remained, he was pretty sure he had gotten his money’s worth. By the time it was emptied, he suspected he should have taken things a little slower, for the goal hadn’t been black-out drunk before the sun had set. That outcome was looking like a real possibility despite his youthful tolerance for drink.

While Lothar had been eating, a man near the fire pulled a deck of cards from a coat pocket. A friendly game of strategy was soon underway at one of the tables and bets were placed. Even with wanting nothing to do with these strangers, Lothar couldn’t help but watch them play from where he sat. He knew the game well and could tell that he would best any of the participants at it. Sobriety wouldn’t even be required of him.

So when one of the gamblers broke from the crowd, approached Lothar, and invited him to join their game – they’d assumed they would make some money off of the young, drunk soldier in the corner – he didn’t hesitate. The room barely spun as he made his way to their table.

Forgettable introductions were quickly made, and a tankard of mead appeared in front of him. Apparently, they thought they’d increase their winnings by liquoring him up a bit more. They were wrong, but he would definitely drink anything they provided for him until they figured it out.

Time passed. Rounds were played. Lothar let the other men win enough so they didn’t tire of his presence. The barmaid kept the drinks flowing, flirting all the while.

He had just won a particularly challenging hand and increased his pile of coins noticeably when the serving woman returned.

 

-=-

 

She couldn’t help but notice the intoxicated, handsome young man had perked up markedly since joining the others near the fire. He was currently celebrating his latest victory almost cheerfully. From the second he’d walked through the door, she’d been attracted to him despite the gloom he’d been radiating. Now that he was no longer moping, she hoped he might be more receptive to her attempts to catch his attention.

Day had given way to darkness outside the tavern’s door, and the crowd inside had dwindled to few more than the men involved in the game and those that stayed to watch. This allowed the barmaid to spend plenty of time servicing the table where the soldier now sat.

He had yet to respond to her advances. Normally, she could have just about any man eating out of her hand by the end of the night. Between accentuating the full bosom fate had gifted her with, the teasing personality she had cultivated for tavern work, and the alcohol she served, she never wanted for companionship if she desired it – and tonight, she most definitely did. This time, it would simply take a little more effort on her part.

Many of the men playing cards were Pig and Whistle regulars who were well accustomed to her touchy-feely ways. She’d learned long ago that flirty attention got you everywhere in a crowd like this and made the tips larger too. So when she brought another round, she made sure to stand a little too close to the soldier while handing out the drinks. If she happened to _accidentally_ place her breasts in his face while leaning over him to pass a stein to the man on the far side of the table, or if she set her hand on his shoulder and left it there too long, no one here would think it out of character.

 

-=-

 

Breasts. Ample breasts. Where had those come from? Lothar had been concentrating intently on his cards and was drunk enough he hadn’t seen them coming. Now, here they were, mere inches from the side of his face. The rest of the woman they were attached to was pressed up against his back, her laughter ringing in his ear. One of her hands – he hoped it was one of hers – came to rest on his shoulder, squeezing in a friendly fashion as her chest retreated. Her touch lingered longer than it should have. He turned to look up at her and found an inviting smile waiting for him.

Light, she smelled good.

Even in his altered state, he could tell she was making her interest known.

Lothar opened his mouth to tell her he was married, but before the words could pass his lips, the untruth of them sank in. The alcohol had almost made him forget that he was once again single. He could follow this woman home – which didn’t sound like that bad of an idea right this second – and there was no one to stop him except himself.

The thought of physical comfort was more than a little tempting, but he was still loyal to Cally and still alert enough to know not to go any further. His remorseful, sad smile back to the barmaid said, “Thank you, but not tonight.” At least, he hoped it did.

If she was disappointed, it didn’t show. Her eyes twinkled merrily as she let him know she’d be here all night if he needed anything. Lothar couldn’t concentrate hard enough to figure out if her words had a double meaning or not, but he suspected they did.

The weight of her hand disappeared from his shoulder and settled on the top of his head. Her fingers playfully ruffled his hair before she walked away, headed back towards the bar.

Her parting touch almost pulled him away from the table. There was a war that had begun raging inside of him between honor and loyalty against lust and loneliness. A little voice in his head was telling him he should probably go home now and avoid the temptation. A competing voice reminded him that home was currently empty except for the night terrors. So he stayed and lifted another drink to his lips.

 

\--=--

 

Lothar’s pile of coins had diminished significantly. Concentrating had gotten quite difficult, and he was losing more often than winning at the game he had temporarily excused himself from for yet another trip to the tavern’s public washroom.

Using his untucked shirt to dry the last of the wash-water from his hands, he exited the small room at the back of the tavern and started down the hallway between the kitchen and the storeroom. Balance had become an issue. He’d finally had enough to drink that the floor rolled beneath his feet like the deck of a ship in the middle of a storm. It was a good thing he wasn’t one to get seasick.

Twice, he was forced to stop and use the wall as support until the world finished lurching about around him. Then, there was no more wall. All that remained between Lothar and his spot at the table was a minefield of empty tables and benches, the end of the bar which stuck out annoyingly into his path, and, apparently, the barmaid. He’d been so focused on walking that he didn’t see her until he had run right into her.

Luckily, she had been drying the bar’s well-worn surface with a towel when they collided and not hurrying back to the kitchen with a tray full of clay tankards.

He bounced off of her and stumbled.

She reached out with one hand and latched onto him to prevent him from falling.

Trying to grab onto anything that would keep him upright, his fingers found purchase on the woman in front of him.

When the danger of him toppling over had passed, she looked down. Following her gaze with his, he discovered that his hand had landed on one of her breasts.

Lothar’s brain slowly registered what he’d done. He pulled his hand away. His embarrassed blush was hidden by the redness from drinking. He tried to apologize, but his words were so slurred that even he couldn’t understand them.

“It’s okay, honey. Let me help you,” the barmaid replied kindly. Taking his hand in hers, she moved to help him back to his table.

His impaired coordination jumbled his feet when he started to follow. He was off-balance once more: tripping, falling. There she was, in front of him again. Closer this time. He had no idea how he ended up leaning against her, trapping her against the end of the bar at her back.

She was warm. Her body, soft.

Despite how drunk he was – maybe _because_ of how drunk he’d gotten – his body responded to the feeling of her against him.

All Lothar wanted to do was lose himself in this woman.

The barmaid had shown all evening long that she was willing, and now, the loyal and mourning bit of him that had spurned her advances and fought against her attention had been silenced. His self-control and moral code finally succumbed to the alcohol flowing through him.

One of his hands had caught the edge of the oaken bar top beside her waist as they fell, preventing him from crushing her. It remained there to support his weight while his other hand that held onto hers let go and slid out from between them. He settled that hand onto her hip. The fingers of her free hand grasped his braced arm, just above the elbow.

The comfortable feeling of a man against a woman had him craving more.

They’d been staring at each other since landing, tangled together. The confusion that could be found in his eyes shifted suddenly to hunger, and his focus dropped to her brightly-tinted, full lips, which parted slightly in reaction to his attention. The tip of her tongue unconsciously and invitingly wet the red coloring she’d applied to them earlier. Her next breath held a slight unsteadiness.

His lips crashed into hers.

Warmth... the taste of mint...

The kiss went unanswered but not rejected. Her lack of participation was beginning to register in his foggy brain when her mouth pressed against his in return. The barmaid’s fingers curled tightly into the front of his shirt, brushing against the skin at the top of his trousers. The fleeting contact drew a low, guttural growl from him that he couldn’t help.

 

-=-

 

He tasted like every drink he’d had tonight, which was considerably less pleasant than the mint she’d recently used to freshen her breath. Lost in the moment, she didn’t care.

The fingers holding onto her hip dug in almost painfully as he pulled their bodies closer yet and leaned against her heavily. His mouth worked against hers with a primal need she had a hard time keeping up with. The sturdy bar top pushed into her spine uncomfortably where his weight held her against it, yet she hardly noticed.

As tightly as their bodies were molded together, his intentions were unmistakable. Light, how she would dearly love to take him in the back room and… well… take him…

…but she couldn’t. She was the only worker this side of the kitchen and would be missed. Not to mention, he was drunk. So very drunk.

He pulled back from the kiss and gave them both several seconds to breathe. She thought this would be a good time to try to calm things down, but before she could do so, his lips found her neck. His teeth nibbled lightly at the sensitive skin there, and she barely managed to stifle the gasp that threatened to slip free in response. Her hand on his arm let go and moved to the back of his head of its own accord. She felt him groan into the side of her throat when her fingers slid through his short, military-length brown hair.

For a moment, she thought it might be worth losing her job to let this take its course. Then, as she debated giving herself over to that outcome, she remembered the haunted, sorrowful look in his eyes earlier in the evening and realized she’d probably be adding to it.

Before, when he’d been in control of himself, it had been a challenge – a game of sorts – to get him to follow her home. Now that she’d seen how far gone he was, she knew she would be taking advantage of him if she let this continue.

Her fingers grabbed hold of his hair and tugged gently. He let her pull his head away, but before she could react, he resumed his assault on her lips.

Hoots and hollers rang out encouragingly from the regular customers gathered by the fireplace. The barmaid was used to this sort of behavior from these men, especially when they were nearly as drunk as this young fella, so the attention didn’t bother her. It did, however, remind her that there was an audience.

She tried again to halt this.

He was unwilling to break away this time, so she pulled on his hair with more force. Relenting, at last, he ended the kiss and gave her the space she’d requested. The soldier was practically panting, but so was she. His eyes were rather glazed when they met hers, and they seemed to be asking her why she had stopped him.

“Oh, honey. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have…”

His brow wrinkled in confusion.

She explained. “As much as I would love to do this, I’d rather do it when you would remember it.” He didn’t look as though he understood what she was saying.

The fingers grasping his hair let go, sliding free. Her hand came to rest on his warm cheek, and her thumb wiped tenderly at the vivid coloring that had transferred to the skin at the corner of his lips from hers.

He pushed the side of his face into her palm as his mouth tried to capture her moving thumb.

It was obvious her message hadn’t been received and that she was going to have to try harder to bring this to an end.

Her other hand, which remained tangled in the front of his shirt, released the fabric and rose to his chest. With a gentle but steady pressure, she pushed him away.

“I’m sorry for whatever it is that has you hurting.” Her words were honest and heartfelt.

The barmaid could see him trying to figure things out. Wheels were turning slowly in that adorable head of his, but reminding him of the pain he’d arrived with finally got through to him. The immense sadness returned to his eyes as he remembered. His fingers gripping her side let go and he wobbled unsteadily as he tried to step back from her.

She nearly shivered when fire-warmed air rushed into the newly-formed space between them; her body already missed the burning heat of his against hers.

One of the men watching from the gaming table was sober enough to comprehend what had happened. Hurrying over, he threw the soldier’s arm over his shoulder and helped the young man stagger back to the safety of the group as the barmaid sagged against the bar, recovering.

There was no doubt in her mind that if she’d been the one to help, the little bit of self-control she had left would have fled when she touched him again. Their path would have taken him to the storeroom instead of the bench seat he was currently sitting on.

She cursed herself for letting things get as far as they had. He’d been in no condition to make responsible decisions, and she hadn’t noticed until it was almost too late. The punishment for her mistake was having to spend the rest of her shift trying to avoid him while hoping the bits of her that had perked up at his attention would go back to behaving themselves. These last few hours promised to be horribly long, and standing here pouting wasn’t going to make them go any faster.

With a sigh of frustration, the barmaid headed through the kitchen and towards the employee’s private washroom to do what she could to make herself as presentable as possible. There would be no way to hide her swollen lips though, no matter how much color she applied.

 

-=-

 

She’d apologized to him.

It didn’t make sense. Why was she apologizing? Lothar couldn’t think of anything she might have done wrong.

Then, the last little part of his brain that could still process thought understood her words and remembered the grief that had driven him here tonight. Between the alcohol and the weight of the memories, his legs had trouble keeping him standing when the barmaid carefully pushed him away.

Through the haze of lust and mead, he saw that she had been wise to stop him from going any further even though he still wanted to. In one of his last few minutes of clarity, he realized that she’d kept him from barreling over a line he hadn’t meant to cross. Despite the aching need in his soul – and in more tangible parts of him as well – he was thankful she had done so.

The next thing his fading mind processed was that he once again sat at the table covered in playing cards, and familiar strangers were slapping him on the back for kissing the busty serving girl. After that, he remembered nothing else of the night and never would.

 

\----=----

 

Lothar woke the next morning to find that he had inadvertently discovered a solution to the nightmares. Alcohol had kept the dreams away, but it was going to make him pay dearly for its services. Less than a minute of muddled consciousness had already proven that this hangover was far worse than any he’d had before, and he’d lived through many in his twenty years of existence.

The early morning light that made its way into the quiet room already hurt his head, and he hadn’t yet opened his eyes. Covering the upper half of his face with a hand, he created the darkness he needed.

Now that the first problem was taken care of, another charged to the forefront. Lothar was contemplating how to find a proper place to empty his aching bladder without the use of his eyes when a door opened somewhere past the foot of the bed he lay on. The person who entered sounded as though he or she was stomping across the wooden floor of the room in heavy boots. Their footsteps echoed off of the walls around and drilled into his brain as the newcomer moved past him.

Lothar didn’t feel well enough to care that he didn’t know who was in the room with him or what the intruder’s intentions were. For a few seconds, he hoped someone had sent an assassin to finish him off and end this misery.

The pounding came to a halt, and the sound of moving fabric followed. Despite the hand across his face, Lothar could tell that the room had darkened. _Curtains?_ he wondered.

“I thought you were going to sleep the day away,” a familiar voice spoke quietly beside him.

_Llane._ That made things easier. “Help me up, will you? I need to piss.” There wasn’t time for politeness. Lothar uncovered his eyes and opened them just enough to see a hand held out to him. He raised his own in the general direction of the offered aid, and Llane grabbed and pulled.

With his friend’s assistance and direction, Lothar made it across the room to the small water closet set into the far wall. The world spun and tilted a bit the entire way and continued to do so even when he stopped moving. Thankfully, he managed to work the leather ties on his pants and relieve himself without incident or embarrassment.

Upon exiting the small side room, he took in his surroundings and realized where he was. As a boy, he’d stayed many a night in nearly identical stone-walled rooms within the Keep’s royal quarters when he visited with Llane. The space was richly furnished and decorated, as all of the guest rooms in this section of the castle were. A dark-colored, hand-carved wardrobe and a writing desk on this side of the room matched the bed on the far side. Beautiful plush rugs were spread around the room. The bedding was luxurious, and the fabric the window’s curtains were made out of would have paid for several cows alone. Llane had previously told him how his father, King Barathen ‘Adamant’ Wrynn III, hated spending so much gold just to make the rooms look pretty, but most of the guests that stayed here were important enough to expect a certain level of lavishness. Image had to be maintained.

“I hope you know how I got here, because I do not.” Even speaking made Lothar’s head pound. The fingers of his right hand sank into his sweat-dampened hair and pushed against the spot where the pain was the worst, trying to make it go away.

“You are probably the one person in this half of Stormwind that doesn’t,” Llane replied. There was humor in his voice as he offered an arm of support. Lothar’s overly warm hand latched onto it as though it was a lifeline. He could feel the near-feverish temperature of his friend’s palm through the sleeve of yesterday’s shirt that he still wore. There hadn’t been time to change into more comfortable night-clothes.

Once he’d gotten Lothar onto the bed, removed the soldier’s boots, and pulled the blankets over him, the prince had spent the night in the comfortable lounging chair near Lothar’s bed to make sure the young man didn’t drown in vomit while he was unconscious. Llane had never seen him that drunk before, and it had been a real possibility. An hour after the sun rose, he’d left the room to send a message to his father with details of his whereabouts and to retrieve some of the backlogged paperwork he’d been avoiding. He’d found his friend stirring when he returned.

In response to Lothar’s confusion at his statement, he continued. “I was alerted to the fact that someone I knew was making quite a drunken scene at the Pig and Whistle. The messenger also said I might want to get there before a certain someone did something he would regret. While I may have arrived too late to prevent _that_ from happening, it seems as though you aren’t likely to remember anything you did that you should be sorry for.” Llane paused his explanation long enough to help Lothar onto the bed again and under the covers. “Let’s just say you owe the proprietor a new pig. Otherwise, they’ll have to change the sign out front to The Whistle, and that doesn’t have the same ring to it.”

Lothar groaned, and it had nothing to do with the stabbing pain in his head. He really wasn’t sure he wanted to know what he’d done to the famous mounted boar that normally hung on the wall behind the tavern’s bar.

“Your nearly unintelligible performance of ‘The Sailor’s Wife’ received quite a bit of cheering and applause as I dragged you through the streets of Old Town and into the Keep.” Llane sat on the edge of the bed beside him while telling his tale.

If Lothar had been confused before, he was at a complete loss now. That particular bar tune had more than a dozen verses, and he wouldn’t have remembered half of them while sober. “I don’t even know the whole song,” he explained to Llane, his brow furrowed.

“That became painfully obvious when you repeated the chorus over and again for at least ten minutes. You will be pleased to know that your lack of lyrical knowledge was more than made up for with volume. I doubt anyone around slept through it.”

Llane seemed to be enjoying Lothar’s mortification at the retelling of the previous night’s adventures. _Smug bastard_ , he grouched to himself _._ Out loud, Lothar asked, “Why didn’t you just throw me into the canal and save us both the trouble?”

Stormwind’s prince couldn’t help but smile as he replied, “The idea did cross my mind, but I would have had to recount to your sister how you ended up as a crocolisk’s meal. That alone is why you remained safe and dry.”

“I am glad there was at least one reason. She would have had your head.” Unbeknownst to either of them, Lothar had figured out some time back that Llane was secretly courting Taria. Even that relationship wouldn’t have protected Llane from her wrath if any harm had actually befallen Lothar. It was well known that the siblings were viciously protective of each other.

The smile that had graced Llane’s lips faded away as his demeanor turned serious below short, dark brown hair that was sleep-tousled and spiked. “Aye, she would have…” He paused to consider how best to say what needed to be said. “…because she cares about your well-being. As do I…” Llane paused again while searched for the words he wanted to use and then continued, “…and you haven’t been doing all that well. We are worried about you.”

“I am fine.” Lothar lied grumpily while scratching at the morning stubble upon his jaw with one hand.

Llane saw right through the falsehood. “No, you are not. You aren’t sleeping, and you aren’t dealing with Cally’s death in a healthy way. It’s become painfully obvious to those of us that care about you, and thanks to last night’s antics, many others that needn’t be aware of your troubles have noticed. I can’t let you self-destruct like this.”

Lothar wanted out of the room, but in the condition he was in, he couldn’t get up and walk away nor could he force Llane to leave. He did _not_ want to have this discussion. He didn’t want to admit that he was drowning and couldn’t save himself. _Damn you, Llane._

“I contacted Medivh. He thinks–”

Interrupting, Lothar angrily growled, “Light! You’re getting everyone involved, aren’t you?” His frustration and irritation evident. “Poor Anduin. Lost his wife, and now he’s losing his marbles. Let’s tell everyone!” He rolled onto his side, turning away from Llane, trying to tell the young man to leave him alone. The sudden movement was a mistake. In the heat of the moment, he’d forgotten how sick he was. Everything else was abruptly unimportant as his concentration shifted to keeping his stomach’s contents where they belonged. There had been more he wanted to say, but it was going to have to wait.

Llane read his friend’s body language easily enough. Knowing how drunk Lothar had been, he’d requested a bucket from one of the Keep’s attendants last night and placed it beside the bed before settling into the nearby chair. He was honestly a little surprised it had taken this long to need it. Reaching down, he grabbed the tin pail and set it on the bed in front of the curled up soldier.

One of Lothar’s hands latched onto the bucket, yet he made no move to use it.

With his audience momentarily silenced, Llane continued. “As I was saying, Medivh thinks he knows how to stop your nightmares. Like the rest of us, he is concerned about your well-being and wants you to get better.” Llane paused to make sure Lothar was still awake, and when he saw signs of alertness, he continued. “He arrived early this morning and left a gift with some very specific instructions for you before portaling off back to Karazhan.” Medivh had woken Llane with a knock on the guest room door before the sun had risen.

Their magical friend’s visits were becoming fewer and further between lately, and Llane had been frustrated that he’d had to reach out to the magus to fill him in on Lothar’s downward spiral in the first place. Only a few years ago, Medivh would have been a fixture at Lothar’s side for support through all of this. As it was, the young Guardian had barely even taken the time to attend Cally’s funeral. **  
**

An inarticulate grunt of a noise escaped from Lothar at this news.

“What did Medivh bring, you ask?” Llane continued on, knowing his friend was in no shape to correct his purposefully inaccurate translation of the sarcastic sound Lothar had made. “He said it was a little something he came up with on his own. It’s a concoction similar to Dreamless Sleep, but without any of the harmful side effects from overuse.”

Lothar slowly rolled onto his back, turning to face Llane again. His rebelling stomach had calmed down enough that the immediate danger of making a mess had passed, and he was very interested in hearing about the Guardian’s gift. One hand remained on the bucket, just in case. The nearly clean-shaven face looking down at him smiled knowingly.

“I thought that might get your attention.” He removed a small glass vial from a pocket in his sleeveless over-shirt and showed it to Lothar. The rest of the gift had gone back to his living quarters for safekeeping when he’d ventured out a little bit ago. Llane continued, “Medivh said that there would be no more when the supply he brought is gone. Apparently, one of the potion’s ingredients is frowned heavily upon by the Crown and is also very hard to come by.” He could tell Lothar wasn’t surprised to hear that the Guardian dabbled in less than legal substances. They both knew their friend pushed any boundary he could. “We came to an agreement, he and I. In order for me to give any of these to you, you have to swear that you will start talking to one of the city priests trained to give counsel.”

Squinted eyes were drawn to the small vial Llane held out in front of him. Lothar couldn’t hide his longing for the liquid that was almost within reach nor his distaste at what his friend was suggesting. The last thing in the world that he wanted to do was show weakness by talking about his feelings and problems to a stranger, and he knew Llane was aware of that. Lothar had said as much when the prince suggested the idea before. Ironically, the only person he’d ever been comfortable discussing those things with had been Cally.

He knew Medivh’s gift might very well be his last chance to escape this hell. He knew that if he kept going as he was, something was going to give out, and it might well be his sanity. If the price for this liquid salvation was agreeing to meet with a priest, Lothar could do that. After all, he didn’t have to promise to actually tell the man what was really swarming around in his head. He was smart, he could work with this.

“I will be checking on your progress with the priest every few days. If I find out you aren’t going, I stop giving you potions. Does this sound like something you can agree to?” Llane waited to hear Lothar’s reply, still holding the vial in his hand.

“This feels…” Lothar swallowed hard and pulled the bucket closer when his stomach lurched. Once he was sure he could continue, he did. “This feels like a bribe.”

“It is.”

The corner of Lothar’s lip twitched upwards at Llane’s honesty. His free hand reached for the potion.

“Your word,” Llane reminded.

Lothar sighed. “I promise I will talk to the priest.”

“More than once.”

“If I must.”

“You must.”

A tiny nod of agreement sealed the deal. It also set the world to spinning again, and Lothar’s battle against his treacherous stomach came to an end. He rolled over, propped himself up on an elbow, and pulled the bucket close just in time.

Llane patiently waited for Lothar to finish before taking the pail from him. “At least you should be able to keep this down now,” he said as he slid the vial into one of Lothar’s emptied hands.

Exhaustion rolled over the soldier as the heaving stopped, his guts settled, and the bucket was removed. Sweat ran down his face and dripped onto the soft linen sheet below. The perspiration that had been a constant since he woke had increased dramatically when he got sick, quickly soaking into his shirt and starting to cool. He was already shivering when he sank back onto the mattress, the potion gripped tightly in his fingers.

The shaking made it hard to pull the tight-fitting cork stopper free, and Lothar was beginning to show signs of frustration when Llane reached over and took the potion back. Before Lothar could react, the opened vial was hovering next to his mouth.

“Let me help you.”

What remained of Lothar’s pride crumbled at the genuine concern in Llane’s voice. He’d had no intention of letting his friend do for him what he should be able to do for himself, but he found he couldn’t say no. He was so tired of facing all of this alone, and the relief he felt at simply accepting this one little bit of offered assistance was nearly overwhelming. Lothar knew that if he said anything, unwanted tears might very well follow, so he answered by parting his lips.

Stormwind’s future king poured the elixir into Lothar’s mouth with care. It ran across his tongue and down his throat slowly enough that he could swallow the unnaturally icy liquid without choking. Before the potion had reached his stomach, the cold turned to fire. It felt like he’d swallowed liquor of a finer quality than any that had gotten him into this situation, and warmth quickly spread from his core as the magic took hold.

Medivh’s potion didn’t knock Lothar out like Dreamless Sleep would have, and he looked to Llane when nothing happened other than the internal warmth. The optimism he’d gained mere minutes ago when he’d heard what had been left for him was retreating along with the shivering. Had the Guardian sent false hope with failed alchemy? What was he to do if this didn’t work?

Llane could see the panic creeping in when Lothar’s eyes locked onto his instead of closing. “Give it some time. Medivh did say there would be differences,” he reminded his friend, trying to keep him calm. He wished he’d taken the time to inquire what those changes would be so that he could be a bit more helpful right now. The Guardian had already been gone before he thought to ask. “Try to sleep. Let it do its work.”

“Don’t know if I can. What if it doesn’t?”

“It will,” Llane said, sounding surer than he felt. _It had better_ , he thought, keeping his worry unspoken. Lothar looked absolutely miserable lying there against the feather pillows, and Llane had no idea what to do for him if Medivh’s present was unsuccessful. “I could get you some tea.”

“No.”

“I could sing you a lullaby.” Llane tried to keep the smile he felt tugging at the corner of his mouth from showing.

“Please don’t.”

Llane’s offer of musical entertainment had done the trick, and he saw only mild irritation on Lothar’s face where hopelessness had been settling in. At his friend’s curt reply, he could no longer hide his smile. It blossomed into a large grin and spread across his face. “I will if I must.” Llane sucked in an overly obvious lungful of air to goad him further.

Lothar knew the prince would follow through with his silly threat. “Alright! Stop! I’ll try… but if you start singing, I will not be held responsible for whatever I may do.”

The air Llane had breathed in powered a hearty laugh instead of a song. He patted Lothar’s arm and said, “Sleep. I’ll be here when you wake.” He got a twitch of a nod in answer and rose from the edge of the bed to give Lothar his space. Returning to the chair he had spent the night in, Llane watched over the troubled soldier until the young man’s blue eyes closed and he finally fell asleep again.

As tempting as it was to get a little more shut-eye himself, Llane knew it would be best to stay awake in case the potion didn’t do what was promised. Resigning himself to a day without enough rest, he emptied and stored the bucket in the water closet, moved to the desk across the room, and got to work – the quiet snoring behind him his only company.

 

\----=----

 

After a good and restful half of a day unconscious, Lothar woke and could sleep no longer. He thanked Llane for taking care of him and begrudgingly admitted he remembered his recent oath to speak to a priest when the prince brought the subject up. Once Lothar proved himself healthy enough to walk without assistance, Llane let him leave.

His first destination was his lonely home, for he desperately needed a bath, a change of clothing, and to scrub the disgusting taste from his tongue.

Once those needs had been seen to, Lothar headed into the city to take responsibility and make reparations for whatever he’d done the night before.

He arrived at the Pig and Whistle early enough that the dinner crowd hadn’t yet arrived and wouldn’t do so for a little while. A quick glance around the interior of the tavern told him he’d be leaving with a much lighter coin purse.

Several of the tables and benches he remembered being near the fireplace were missing, and the remaining furniture had been rearranged to fill in the space they’d left empty. On the wall near the bar, one of the sturdy iron sconces that had previously held an oil lamp hung crooked and bent. The lamp was missing. Sunlight shone through the thick-paned windows and lit the room well enough for now, but that corner of the room would be darker than normal once the sun set.

Lothar hadn’t eaten here often enough to notice if anything else was out of place other than one last glaringly obvious absence. Where was the pig?

The tavern’s namesake trophy was gone from its spot high up on the wall behind the bar. Underneath the empty space the stuffed boar had occupied were several broken shelves where bottles of alcohol had been displayed.

_What the hell did I do?_ Lothar wondered to himself as he scanned the room for anyone that worked there.

A tall, skinny young man in an apron exited the kitchen just then, carrying several plates full of food. The server hurried around the bar and towards one of only two occupied tables. Lothar stepped farther into the room with the intention of intercepting the man on his way back to the kitchen, but before he had reached the center of the room, a loud, threatening voice rang out.

“You! You’ve got some nerve setting foot in here again! Get out!”

Lothar stopped in his tracks and turned to find a stooped, wrinkled, and bespectacled man glowering at him from the end of the kitchen hallway. He couldn’t remember having seen this furious gentleman before, but the recognition written all over the old man’s face led Lothar to believe that they’d run into each other during the chunk of time missing from his memory of the night before.

He took a step towards the bar as he calmly said, “Please, sir–”

“I don’t want to hear it, sonny,” the elderly fellow interrupted Lothar’s attempt to make peace. “‘Sorry’ isn’t going to replace anything your drunken antics destroyed.” Catching his breath, the man continued, “If you’re not out of here in the next minute, I’m going to call the guards!”

This was not going at all like Lothar hoped it would. Everyone in the room was staring at him as though he were a common criminal: a less-than-honorable, disrespectful hooligan. He didn’t want to get dragged out of here with anyone still thinking that of him, so he tried again. “You’re right. I was out of line–”

“Damn right, you were.” The old man’s words were full of venom as he cut Lothar off again. “You young bucks… have no respect…” He seemed to be having trouble getting enough air, but it didn’t stop him from continuing his rant, “…no respect for another man’s livelihood…”

The sound of a door opening and closing at the far end of the hallway vaguely registered in Lothar’s mind as he took advantage of a long pause in the other man’s words to refute them. “If that was true, I wouldn’t be here.”

Slow and cautious footsteps echoed down the hall, preceding the person making them. Lothar couldn’t see who was walking up behind the tavern’s owner from where he stood in the middle of the room. He hoped it wasn’t going to be someone more capable of following through on the old man’s threats to have him removed, but in case it was, he needed to hurry.

“I came back to pay for any damages. Sir, would you please allow me the opportunity to make things right?” Lothar needed to calm this man down so that his words would be heard because he wasn’t going resort to groveling in front of the tavern’s customers.

His hands raised in a non-threatening manner, Lothar took several steps towards the bar. The forward movement was met with a barked, “Not one step closer!” from the old man, and the warrior halted again, frustrated. He was going to have to do something to change the direction this was heading.

Dropping his right hand to his side, he pulled the coin purse free from the secure pocket in his clothing and held it up in front of himself as a peace offering.

It was obvious the man couldn’t tell what it was at that distance from the way he squinted behind the thick lenses of his eyeglasses. The unmistakable noise the coins made as they clinked together spoke a language most knew. Lothar saw the rage melt from the man’s wrinkled features at the realization of what was in the small leather bag, replaced quickly with something much scarier: the face of a seasoned businessman who knew he had you over his knee, and there was nothing you could do about it. A gnarled and crooked finger pointed towards the empty table closest to where the man stood, and Lothar headed towards it.

A familiar woman appeared behind the elderly gentleman before he could move to join Lothar.

Flickering, heated memory surfaced as Lothar recognized the barmaid from the night before. He remembered kissing her and trying for more, and then the moment she pushed him away, but he had no idea what happened between them after that. Light, he hoped this wasn’t about to get ugly.

Placing her hand on the other man’s shoulder, she said, “Come now, Mr. Iverson. Give the young fella a break. He’s the first one to ever come back.”

Lothar could hear the smile in her words and see it in her eyes before one broke across her lips. He was relieved by her happy reaction to his presence, for he hadn’t known if he’d be met with glared daggers and thrown dishes instead. The cost of replacing broken items could be afforded, but no amount of money would be able to repair the damage between a woman and a man.

She gave him a small wave with the fingers of her other hand as she playfully added to the man in front of her, “Try to leave him with enough so he can buy me dinner later.” Having said that, she turned and headed back down the hall, presumably to prepare for her shift.

Mr. Iverson called after her, “No promises!” and hobbled slowly over to where Lothar waited next to the table.

Once the elder man had taken a seat, Lothar claimed his and prepared to stick out his hand in greeting. The tavern owner instead cut to the chase and started talking before there was even a chance for proper introductions.

“After what you did here last night, I should have you thrown in the stockades to teach you a lesson. It wasn’t right, it wasn’t respectable, and I think it’s fair to say that I don’t like you very much.” Now that Mr. Iverson wasn’t standing and having to make himself heard across the room, his breathing was no longer labored. “Gold. Now that, I like. Let’s see if maybe we can do something to change my mind about you.”

The price of bar furnishings had never come up in conversation before, so Lothar had no idea how much to offer for their replacement. He was fairly confident he was going to be paying twice their worth, so he thought he’d start low – but not insultingly so.

Two gold coins.

“I appreciate the opportunity, sir,” Lothar said sincerely as he placed those coins in the center of the table.

Mr. Iverson nodded, looking at the offering in front of him. “It’s a good start, sonny, but that will barely cover the cost of the tables, benches, and chairs I have to replace.”

Lothar slid another small disc of gold onto the table.

“That should pay the blacksmith for a new lamp and candle-rack.”

“Candle-rack?” Lothar inquired. He couldn’t recall what the gentleman might be talking about.

The same finger that had pointed him towards this table now pointed towards the ceiling directly above them. Sure enough, he could see the splintered damage left behind in the solid wood beam where it appeared a large fixture of some sort had been removed in a rather violent fashion. There were still bits and pieces of a pulley system for raising and lowering a chandelier farther down the beam, but they were all bent or partially yanked free from the wood.

He certainly didn’t remember if there had been anything hanging there last night, nor what he could have possibly done to cause that sort of destruction, but it looked fresh enough to have plausibly been him. With the holes in his memory, he was at Mr. Iverson’s mercy; the man could pad the bill all he wanted, and Lothar had no grounds to argue.

“Ah. The candle-rack.” He almost cringed when he brought his gaze down from the ceiling and found the older man smirking at him.

A large amount of precious metal glinted in the sun on the table between them already. It was only one gold coin shy of what Lothar had estimated to be the highest he would have to go, and they hadn’t yet gotten to the remaining damage he did know about – much less any more of Mr. Iverson’s additions.

Honor would come at a high price today.

 

\--=--

 

It was a nearly empty coin purse that Lothar returned to the interior of his coat. The Pig and Whistle’s owner drove a hard bargain and had not been willing to budge much at any bartering attempt, but he had left the table whistling a cheery tune. He’d even giving the soldier’s hand a hearty shake to seal the deal before he scooped up the gold and disappeared into the hallway he’d first appeared from.

Lothar’s stomach rumbled. The smell of cooking meat drifted from the kitchen and made his mouth water. His finances had taken a big hit today. He knew it would be unwise to spend any more money ordering from the menu, so he made plans to stop by the barracks on the way home. The cooks there would always feed a military man for free, even if he was currently on leave.

Physical and emotional exhaustion weighed him down, so he remained sitting alone at the table for several minutes, gathering energy for the walk across the city.

 

-=-

 

The barmaid had been keeping tabs on what happened at the table between her boss and the young man while she began her day of work. Most of the patrons who had been dining when she arrived were on their way out, and no more had come to take their place. It was a slow day. After last night, that was okay with her.

A stack of recently laundered napkins filled her arms as she left the storeroom and turned in the direction of the bar where she intended to fold the linen rectangles. Stepping into the hallway, she barely avoided being bowled over by an exuberant Mr. Iverson.

“He has promise, that one,” was all the older man said to her as he entered the kitchen across the hall. That was high praise coming from her boss.

Picking up the pace, she hustled out and dropped the napkins onto a clean section of the bar’s oak top. She’d been hoping to speak to the soldier before he left and was glad to find him still here.

From where she stood behind the counter, he looked defeated. Elbows on the table in front of him, his forehead rested in his hands. She couldn’t tell if his eyes were closed or not from this angle.

This definitely called for some cheering up.

The barmaid raced into the kitchen and quickly filled a bowl with stew from the large pot of it hanging over the fire. Roger, the cook, looked at her skeptically but didn’t get in her way as she loaded a small serving tray and rushed back out again.

He remained, still as a statue. The handsome young man hadn’t moved and didn’t do so until she neared. He abruptly raised his head and dropped his hands to the surface in front of him and started to push himself back from the table, not noticing her approach.

In one smooth, fluid motion, she slid to a stop beside him, pulled the bowl of stew from her tray, and placed it in front of him.

Trained soldiers weren’t easy to surprise, but she managed the task. His head snapped around and his eyes locked onto hers, appraising the level of danger he was in. When he processed what had just happened, he relaxed and dropped his gaze to the bowl before him. He stared dumbly at the stew while the barmaid placed bread, water, and a mug of coffee around it. His eyes returned to hers when she finished setting things down. Questioning swam in their sea-colored depths.

“I didn’t order–”

“It’s on the house,” she said, cutting him off with warmly spoken words. “I saw how much gold he got out of you, and you’ve more than paid for your crimes. I think he even charged you for a pitcher Ol’ ‘Tippy’ Gibson broke last week.”

Her humor drew a small, tired smile and a quiet chuckle from him before he responded, “That wouldn’t surprise me in the least.” Looking back down at the meal she’d gifted him with, he added, “Thank you for this. I appreciate it.”

“You looked like you needed it.” Adding utensils and an unfolded napkin to the table, she continued, “Honestly, I’m surprised you’re even up and about and using words correctly with how shit-faced you were when your friend dragged you out of here.”

Her verbal reminder of his poor behavior brought a seriousness back to his features. His next words were hesitant and stumbling, as if he were unsure of how to handle himself in this situation. “I want to… apologize to you… for–”

“Hold that thought, honey. I’ll be right back.” She could tell there was some serious conversation coming up next and didn’t want to be called away by work in the middle of it. Cutting him off before he could go further, the barmaid went to make sure the other patrons’ needs were seen to so she could come back and chat with him uninterrupted for a while.

 

-=-

 

From anyone else, the sudden rushing away might have seemed rude. Lothar simply thought it fit with what he’d seen of the woman’s personality and took no offense.

He had just enough time to enjoy a few bites of stew-soaked bread before the barmaid returned and sat without invitation in the chair across the table from him.

“Pamela,” she stated abruptly, adding nothing else.

Lothar may have been doing better than he should be, thanks to Medivh, but he wasn’t quite up to his normal levels of comprehension yet. He had no idea what she meant by her statement.

“I beg your pardon?”

Smiling, she continued, “That’s my name. Figured it was time to introduce myself, seeing as we almost got to know each other as well as two people can. What’s yours, handsome?”

It didn’t look like she was at all bothered by what had happened between them last night. He, on the other hand, felt rather guilty about treating her so cheaply, for not controlling his impulses better.

“Lothar,” he unthinkingly offered the name most called him. If his mind hadn’t been distractedly dragging him through one of the steamier moments of their previous interaction just then, he might have given her his lesser used first name instead: the one only his friends and family used with any regularity.

“That’s different,” she remarked, “I was thinking you looked like an Oliver.”

He’d known an Oliver. The man had been a complete and insufferable bastard, and he couldn’t help his distaste for the suggestion from showing.

Pamela giggled at the face he made and agreed, “Alright… not an Oliver.”

He nodded.

Leaning closer, her smile faded a bit as she intently studied his face. He was about to ask her what she was thinking when she continued, “I’ve never met a Lothar before. What kind of a name is that, and where does it come from?” she asked, showing honest interest.

“A family name. _My_ family’s name,” he admitted reluctantly. “It’s Arathi.”

“Aha.”

The tone of her short reply told him she had never heard of the empire of Arathor. There was no sign the barmaid recognized the importance of his bloodline, but why would she? A good portion of the common folk didn’t have the money to send their children to the city’s schools nor could they afford the time to let them go to the free lessons held in the Cathedral of Light. The founding of Stormwind by Lothar’s ancestors wasn’t the sort of vital information parents shared with their children along with the secrets of their family trade.

That was fine with Lothar; he preferred the anonymity their ignorance afforded him. People usually tried ingratiating themselves with those they thought to be connected to wealth and privilege, and he’d rather not have those preconceptions tainting his friendships.

“Anduin is my given name.”

Now it was her turn to make a face. “You have the courage to look down upon the Olivers of this world while you carry around a name like that? I can see why you stick with Lothar,” she teased, her grin returning.

Her upbeat mood was highly infectious, and Lothar couldn’t help but laugh.

 

-=-

 

Pamela thought it was good to see him in high spirits, even if the happiness didn’t last long.

Drifting into the somberness he’d been wrapped in when she first spoke to him the night before, Lothar quickly turned the conversation back to where it had been heading all along.

He apologized for his drunken behavior and thanked her for stopping him from going too far. When she asked him what he’d been trying to escape from, he told her about the recent death of his wife, the nightmares, and of his uncertainty about raising baby Callan by himself.

Taking his hand in hers, she listened.

When he came to the end of what he seemed almost desperate to talk about, she gave her condolences for his loss and offered her expertise with children in case he ever needed assistance with his boy. Doing most of the raising of her six brothers and sisters had made her quite adept at taking care of little ones. Much to her surprise, he didn’t turn down a near-stranger’s proposal of babysitting and instead told her the help would really be appreciated.

She had hoped for more time with him at his table, but the bell above the tavern’s door merrily jingled the announcement of new arrivals. Several couples entered the Pig and Whistle together, and Pamela had work that needed to be done.

“Eat. Your food’s getting cold,” she reminded Lothar as she squeezed his hand and rose from her chair. “I’ll check on you when I can.”

He nodded and followed her with his eyes as she started to walk past him. Thinking he still looked far too sad, she ruffled his hair on her way by. It was a gesture that would become a friendly greeting in the years to come – one he would even start to appreciate… eventually.

 

\----=----

 

Anduin Lothar never found out what was in the ethically questionable gift Medivh had left for him. No matter what the secret ingredient had been, the potions did what they were supposed to and what he needed them to do. Not a single dream disturbed his nights while the supply of vials remained. The two weeks of uninterrupted rest they provided helped him survive long enough to come to terms with what had happened and gave him the ability to finally mourn Cally properly.

Talking to the priest had been surprisingly beneficial as well, though Lothar would never admit it to anyone. The man was old and physically frail, but his mind was sharper than any blade. He’d been a thoughtful listener once he got the warrior talking, and his suggestions had helped tremendously. While the dreams remained absent, the priest even managed to push Lothar into taking a step towards reclaiming normality by convincing him to sleep in his own bed again.

The last glass vial was emptied, and the safety net was gone. Over the next few nights, he started to dream once more. To Lothar’s relief, Cally still appeared, but no longer in nightmares.

With help from his sister and a patient nursemaid, he brought Callan back into his home and learned to care for the boy.

When it could be put off no longer, he returned to his military duties.

He recovered.

 

\--=-- --=-- --=-- --=-- --=--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update 10/9/18: I'm still alive and kicking! I've been chugging away on this, but I ended up doing a lot of fleshing out of sections and chapters further down the line as I had some really good ideas for them and didn't want to lose them. Then I had a small bout of writer's block just around the time that 'Battle for Azeroth' released. I just sat down and started back in on the current section a few nights ago and have my drive back. Woo! I'll probably release a much smaller chapter as quickly as possible so that there's new content before people forget about the story. Hopefully, soon.
> 
> \----------
> 
> Oh my. This took far too long... and it's only about 1/3rd of the content that made up what was originally chapter 4. I have the next two chapters planned, outlined, and partially written already. I hope to take far, far less time to get those completed than this one took. We will get to the curse part of 'Accursed' at some point, I pinky swear! I'm predicting chapter 7. :D
> 
> I'm starting to almost feel like a beginning author, at last. It's been rather amazing to see the progression from the first version of the content of the first chapters that I sent along to my betas to the first version of the content from this chapter. Even from the content in this chapter that I wrote 7 months ago to the stuff I finished this morning. Now if only I could do it faster! Heh.
> 
> All of this was made possible by the continual and awesome daily beta reading from AMFox. Without her help, I'd *really* look like I didn't know what I was doing. She even allowed me to pilfer a few of her suggested lines and stuff them in here. Thank you! I'm not ignoring my other two betas, but I don't know their account names here to list them. :D Thanks to those fine ladies as well.
> 
> Thank you kindly to Everleigh_DT, Zombiehound, Katielew, rambunctiousragamuffin, and the 6 new guests for the kudos since the last chapter was posted. Every time I see one of those email notifications, it really makes my day.


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